.',    ' 


THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 


THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 


THE  ROMANCE  OF  A  PLAIN  MAN 

THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

THE  WHEEL  OF  LIFE 

THE  DELIVERANCE 

THE  BATTLEGROUND 

THE  VOICE  OF  THE  PEOPLE 

PHASES  OF  AN  INFERIOR  PLANET 

THE  DESCENDANT 
THE  FREEMAN  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


Old  CktircR  f 


Ellerx  Glasgow 

5  * 


1911 


ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED,  INCLUDING  THAT  OF  TRANSLATION 
INTO  FOREIGN  LANGUAGES,  INCLUDING  THE  SCANDINAVIAN 


COPYRIGHT,  JQII,  BY  DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE   &  COMPANY 


TO    MY    SISTER 

CART  GLASGOW  McCoRMACK 

IN   LOVING   ACKNOWLEDGMENT    OF   HELP 
AND    SYMPATHY   THROUGH     MANY    YEARS 


M105433 


ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED,  INCLUDING  THAT  OF  TRANSLATION 
INTO  FOREIGN  LANGUAGES,  INCLUDING  THE  SCANDINAVIAN 


COPYRIGHT,  JQII,  BY  DOU3LEDAY,  PAGE   Sc  COMPANY 


TO    MY    SISTER 

CART  GLASGOW  McCoRMACK 

IN   LOVING   ACKNOWLEDGMENT    OF   HELP 
AND    SYMPATHY   THROUGH     MANY    YEARS 


M105133 


CONTENTS 
BOOK  FIRST— JORDAN'S  JOURNEY 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  AT  BOTTOM'S  ORDINARY                                     ,        .  3 

II.  IN  WHICH  DESTINY  WEARS  THE  COMIC  MASK         .  19 

III.  IN  WHICH  MR.  GAY  ARRIVES  AT  His  JOURNEY'S  END  29 

IV.  THE  REVERCOMBS 45 

V.  THE  MILL 56 

VI.  TREATS  OF  THE  LADIES'  SPHERE     ....  72 

VII.  GAY  RUSHES  INTO  A  QUARREL  AND  SECURES  A  Kiss  86 

VIII.  SHOWS  Two  SIDES  OF  A  QUARREL  ....  104 

IX.  IN  WHICH  MOLLY  FLIRTS 118 

X.  THE   REVEREND    ORLANDO  MULLEN  PREACHES  A 

SERMON 131 

XI.  A  FLIGHT  AND  AN  ENCOUNTER        ....  144 

XII.  THE  DREAM  AND  THE  REAL 159 

XHI.  BY  THE  MILL-RACE 171 

XIV.  SHOWS  THE  WEAKNESS  IN  STRENGTH      .        .        .183 

XV.  SHOWS  THE  TYRANNY  OF  WEAKNESS       .        .        .191 

XVI.  THE  COMING  OF  SPRING 203 

XVII.  THE  SHADE  OF  MR.  JONATHAN        .        .        .        .214 

XVIII.  THE  SHADE  OF  REUBEN 223 

XIX.  TREATS  OF  CONTRADICTIONS            ....  230 

XX.  LIFE'S  IRONIES 242 

XXI.  IN  WHICH  PITY  MASQUERADES  AS  REASON     .        .  262 

v 


vi  CONTENTS 

BOOK  SECOND— THE  CROSS-ROADS 

CHAPTER  PAGH 

I.  IN  WHICH  YOUTH  SHOWS  A  LITTLE  SEASONED;        .  277 

II.  THE  DESIRE  or  THE  MOTH 289 

III.  ABEL  HEARS  GOSSIP  AND  SEES  A  VISION         .        .  298 

IV.  His  DAY  OF  FREEDOM 313 

V.  THE  SHAPING  OF  MOLLY 319 

VI.  IN  WHICH  HEARTS  Go  ASTRAY        ....  331 

VII.  A  NEW  BEGINNING  TO  AN  OLD  TRAGEDY         .        .  343 

VIII.  A  GREAT  PASSION  IN  A  HUMBLE  PLACE          .        .  354 

IX.  A  MEETING  IN  THE  PASTURE           ....  364 

X.  TANGLED  THREADS 372 

XI.  THE  RIDE  TO  PIPING  TREE 381 

XII.  ONE  OF  LOVE'S  VICTIMS 399 

XIII.  WHAT  LIFE  TEACHES 403 

XIV.  THE  TURN  OF  THE  WHEEL 414 

XV.  GAY  DISCOVERS  HIMSELF 422 

XVI.  THE  END  429 


BOOK  FIRST 
JORDAN'S  JOURNEY 


THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 


CHAPTER  I         'Js't: 

AT  BOTTOM'S  ORDINARY. 


IT  WAS  past  four  o'clock  on  a  sunny  October  day, 
when  a  stranger,  who  had  ridden  over  the  " corduroy" 
road  between  Applegate  and  Old  Church,  dismounted 
near  the  cross-roads  before  the  small  public  house 
known  to  its  frequenters  as  Bottom's  Ordinary.  Stand 
ing  where  the  three  roads  meet  at  the  old  turnpike- 
gate  of  the  county,  the  square  brick  building,  which 
had  declined  through  several  generations  from  a 
chapel  into  a  tavern,  had  grown  at  last  to  resemble 
the  smeared  face  of  a  clown  under  a  steeple  hat  which 
was  worn  slightly  awry.  Originally  covered  with 
stucco,  the  walls  had  peeled  year  by  year  until  the 
dull  red  of  the  bricks  showed  like  blotches  of  paint 
under  a  thick  coating  of  powder.  Over  the  wide  door 
two  little  oblong  windows,  holding  four  damaged  panes, 
blinked  rakishly  from  a  mat  of  ivy,  which  spread 
from  the  rotting  eaves  to  the  shingled  roof,  where 
the  slim  wooden  spire  bent  under  the  weight  of  the 
creeper  and  of  innumerable  nesting  sparrows  in  spring. 
After  pointing  heavenward  for  half  a  century,  the 
steeple  appeared  to  have  swerved  suddenly  from  its 
purpose,  and  to  invite  now  the  attention  of  the 

*  The  scene  of  this  story  is  not  the  place  of  the  same  name  in  Virginia. 

S 


4  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

wayfarer  to  the  bar  beneath.  This  cheerful  room 
which  sprouted,  like  some  grotesque  wing,  from 
the  right  side  of  the  chapel,  marked  not  only  a 
utilitarian  triumph  in  architecture,  but  served,  on 
market  ;days,:  to  attract  a  larger  congregation  of  the 
righteQU^  fh^ii  had  ever  stood  up  to  sing  the  doxology 
fn  ;tjie-  adjoining  .place  of  worship.  Good  and  bad 
prospects  \veFe/W<sjghed  here,  weddings  discussed,  births 
and  deaths  recorded  in  ever-green  memories,  and  here, 
also,  were  reputations  demolished  and  the  owners  of 
them  hustled  with  scant  ceremony  away  to  perdition. 
From  the  open  door  of  the  bar  on  this  particular 
October  day,  there  streamed  the  ruddy  blaze  of  a  fire 
newly  kindled  from  knots  of  resinous  pine.  Against 
this  pleasant  background  might  be  discerned  now 
and  then  the  shapeless  silhouette  of  Betsey  Bottom, 
the  innkeeper,  a  soft  and  capable  soul,  who,  in  attaching 
William  Ming  some  ten  years  before,  had  successfully 
extinguished  his  identity  without  materially  impairing 
her  own.  Bottom's  Ordinary  had  always  been  ruled 
by  a  woman,  and  it  would  continue  to  be  so,  please  God, 
however  loudly  a  mere  Ming  might  protest  to  the  con 
trary.  In  the  eyes  of  her  neighbours,  a  female,  right 
or  wrong,  was  always  a  female,  and  this  obvious  fact, 
beyond  and  above  any  natural  two-sided  jars  of  wed 
lock,  sufficed  in  itself  to  establish  Mrs.  Ming  as  a 
conjugal  martyr.  Being  an  amiable  body  —  peaceably 
disposed  to  every  living  creature,  with  the  exception  of 
William  —  she  had  hastened  to  the  door  to  reprimand 
Mm  for  some  trivial  neglect  of  the  grey  mule,  when  her 
glance  lighted  upon  the  stranger,  who  had  come  a  few 
minutes  earlier  by  the  Applegate  road.  As  he  was  a 
fine  looking  man  of  full  habit  and  some  thirty  years, 


AT   BOTTOM'S  ORDINARY  JJ 

her  eyes  lingered  an  instant  on  his  face  before  she 
turned  with  the  news  to  her  slatternly  negro  maid  who 
was  sousing  the  floor  with  a  bucket  of  soapsuds. 

"Thar's  nobody  on  earth  out  thar  but  young  Mr. 
Jonathan  Gay  come  back  to  Jordan's  Journey,"  she 
said.  "  I  declar  I'd  know  a  Gay  by  his  eyes  if  I  war  to 
meet  him  in  so  unlikely  a  place  as  Kingdom  Come. 
He's  talkin'  to  old  Adam  Doolittle  now,"  she  added, 
for  the  information  of  the  maid,  who,  being  of  a  cu 
rious  habit  of  mind,  had  raised  herself  on  her  knees 
and  was  craning  her  neck  toward  the  door, "I  can  see 
his  lips  movin',  but  he  speaks  so  low  I  can't  make  out 
what  he  says." 

"Lemme  git  dar  a  minute,  Miss  Betsey,  I'se  got 
moughty  sharp  years,  I  is. " 

"They're  no  sharper  than  mine,  I  reckon,  and  I 
couldn't  hear  if  I  stood  an'  listened  forever.  It's 
about  the  road  most  likely,  for  I  see  old  Adam 
a-pintin'." 

For  a  minute  after  dismounting  the  stranger 
looked  dubiously  at  the  mottled  face  of  the  tavern. 
On  his  head  the  sunlight  shone  through  the  boughs 
of  a  giant  mulberry  tree  near  the  well,  and  beyond 
this  the  Virginian  forest,  brilliant  with  its  autumnal 
colours  of  red  and  copper,  stretched  to  the  village  of 
Applegate,  some  ten  or  twelve  miles  to  the  north. 

Starting  southward  from  the  cross-roads,  the  char 
acter  of  the  country  underwent  so  sudden  a  transfor 
mation  that  it  looked  as  if  man,  having  contended  here 
unsuccessfully  with  nature,  had  signed  an  ignominious 
truce  beneath  the  crumbling  gateposts  of  the  turnpike. 
Passing  beyond  them  a  few  steps  out  of  the  forest, 
one  found  a  low  hill,  on  which  the  reaped  corn  stood  in 


6  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

stacks  like  the  weapons  of  a  vanished  army,  while 
across  the  sunken  road,  the  abandoned  fields,  over 
grown  with  broomsedge  and  life-everlasting,  spread 
for  several  miles  between  "  worm  fences "  which 
were  half  buried  in  brushwood.  To  the  eyes  of  the 
stranger,  fresh  from  the  trim  landscapes  of  England, 
there  was  an  aspect  of  desolation  in  the  neglected  roads, 
in  the  deserted  fields,  and  in  the  dim  grey  marshes 
that  showed  beyond  the  low  banks  of  the  river. 

In  the  effort  to  shake  off  the  depression  this  loneli 
ness  had  brought  on  his  spirits,  he  turned  to  an  an 
cient  countryman,  wearing  overalls  of  blue  jeans, 
who  dozed  comfortably  on  the  circular  bench  beneath 
the  mulberry  tree. 

"Is  there  a  nearer  way  to  Jordan's  Journey,  or  must 
I  follow  the  turnpike?"  he  asked. 

"Hey?     Young  Adam,  are  you  thar,  suh?" 

Young  Adam,  a  dejected  looking  youth  of  fifty 
years,  with  a  pair  of  short-sighted  eyes  that  glanced 
over  his  shoulder  as  if  in  fear  of  pursuit,  shuffled  round 
the  trough  of  the  well,  and  sat  down  on  the  bench  at 
his  parent's  side. 

"He  wants  to  know,  pa,  if  thar's  a  short  cut  from 
the  ornary  over  to  Jordan's  Journey"  he  repeated. 

Old  Adam,  who  had  sucked  patiently  at  the  stem  of 
his  pipe  during  the  explanation,  withdrew  it  at  the 
end,  and  thrust  out  his  lower  lip  as  a  child  does  that 
has  stopped  crying  before  it  intended  to. 

"You  can  take  a  turn  to  the  right  at  the  blazed  pine 
a  half  a  mile  on,"  he  replied,  "but  thar's  the  bars  to 
be  pulled  down  an'  put  up  agin." 

"I  jest  come  along  thar,  an'  the  bars  was  down," 
said  young  Adam. 


AT  BOTTOM'S  ORDINARY  7 

"Well,  they  hadn't  ought  to  have  been,"  retorted 
old  Adam,  indignantly.  "Bars  is  bars  whether  they 
be  public  or  private,  an'  the  man  that  pulls  'em  down 
without  puttin'  'em  up  agin,  is  a  man  that  you'll 
find  to  be  loose  moraled  in  other  matters." 

"It's  the  truth  as  sure  as  you  speak  it,  Mr.  Doo- 
little,"  said  a  wiry,  knocked-kneed  farmer,  with  a 
hatchet-shaped  face,  who  had  sidled  up  to  the  group. 
"It  warn't  no  longer  than  yesterday  that  I  was  sayin' 
the  same  words  to  the  new  minister,  or  rector  as  he 
tries  to  get  us  to  call  him,  about  false  doctrine  an' 
evil  practice.  *  The  difference  between  sprinklin'  and 
immersion  ain't  jest  the  difference  between  a  few  drops 
on  the  head  an'  goin'  all  under,  Mr.  Mullen,'  I  said, 
'but  'tis  the  whole  difference  between  the  natur  that's 
bent  moral  an'  the  natur  that  ain't.'  It  follows  as 
clear  an'  logical  as  night  follows  day  —  now,  I  ax  you, 
don't  it,  Mr.  Doolittle  —  that  a  man  that's  gone  wrong 
on  immersion  can't  be  trusted  to  keep  his  hands  off  the 
women?" 

"I  ain't  sayin'  all  that,  Solomon  Hatch,"  responded 
old  Adam,  in  a  charitable  tone,  "seem'  that 
I've  never  made  up  my  own  mind  quite  clear 
on  those  two  p'ints  —  but  I  do  say,  be  he  immersed  or 
sprinkled,  that  the  man  who  took  down  them  bars 
without  puttin'  'em  up  ain't  a  man  to  be  trusted." 

'  'Twarn't  a  man,  'twas  a  gal,"  put  in  young 
Adam,  "I  seed  Molly  Merry  weather  goin'  toward  the 
low  grounds  as  I  come  up." 

"Then  it's  most  likely  to  have  been  she,"  com 
mented  Solomon,  "for  she  is  a  light-minded  one, 
as  is  proper  an'  becomin'  in  a  child  of  sin." 

The  stranger  looked  up  with  a  laugh  from  the  moss- 


8  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

grown  cattle  trough  beside  which  he  was  standing, 
and  his  eyes  —  of  a  peculiar  dark  blue  —  glanced 
merrily  into  the  bleared  ones  of  old  Adam. 

"I  ain't  so  blind  yet  as  not  to  know  a  Gay  when  I 
see  one,"  said  the  labourer,  with  a  sly  chuckle.  "If 
I  hadn't  closed  the  eyes  of  old  Mr.  Jonathan  when  he 
was  found  dead  over  yonder  by  Poplar  Spring,  I'd 
as  soon  as  not  take  my  Bible  oath  that  he'd  come 
young  agin  an'  was  ridin'  along  back  to  Jordan's 
Journey." 

"Do  you  believe  down  here  that  my  uncle  killed 
himself?"  asked  the  young  man,  with  a  furtive  dis 
pleasure  in  his  voice,  as  if  he  alluded  to  a  disagreeable 
subject  in  response  to  some  pressure  of  duty. 

4  'Tis  as  it  may  be,  suh,  I  can't  answer  for  that. 
To  this  day  if  you  get  Solomon  Hatch  or  Betsey 
Bottom,  (axin'  her  pardon  for  puttin'  her  last),  started 
on  the  subject  they'll  contend  till  they're  blue  in  the 
face  that  'twas  naught  done  but  pure  murder.  How 
ever,  I'm  too  old  at  my  time  of  life  to  take  up  with 
any  opinion  that  ain't  pleasant  to  think  on,  an',  when 
all's  said  an'  done,  pure  murder  ain't  a  peaceable, 
comfortable  kind  of  thing  to  believe  in  when  thar's 
only  one  Justice  of  the  Peace  an'  he  bed-ridden  since 
Christmas.  When  you  ax  me  to  pin  my  faith  on  any 
p  'int,  be  it  for  this  world  or  the  next,  my  first  question 
consarnin'  it  is  whether  that  particular  p'int  happens 
to  be  pleasant.  'Tis  that  little  small  argyment  of 
mine  that  has  confounded  Mr.  Mullen  more  than  once, 
when  he  meets  me  on  equal  ground  outside  the  pulpit. 
'Mebbe  'tis  an'  mebbe  'tisn't,'  as  I  remarked  sociably 
to  him  about  the  matter  of  eternal  damnation,  'but 
you  can't  deny,  can  you,  suh,  bein'  outside  the  pulpit 


BOTTOM'S  ORDINARY  9 

an*  bound  to  speak  the  truth  like  the  rest  of  us,  that 
you  sleep  a  long  sight  easier  in  yo'  bed  when  you  say 
to  yo'self  that  mebbe  'tisn't?'  " 

"You  see  pa's  old,  an'  he  won't  harbour  any 
belief  at  his  time  of  life  that  don't  let  him  rest  com 
fortable,"  remarked  young  Adam,  in  an  apologetic 
aside.  "It's  that  weakness  of  his  that  keeps  him  from 
bein'  a  thorough  goin'  good  Christian." 

"That  strange  young  clergyman  has  stirred  us  all 
up  about  the  doctrines,"  said  Solomon  Hatch.  "He's 
opened  Old  Church  agin,  an'  he  works  terrible  hard 
to  make  us  feel  that  we'd  rather  be  sprinkled  on  the 
head  than  go  under  all  over.  A  nice-mannered  man 
he  is,  with  a  pretty  face,  an'  some  folks  hold  it  to  be 
a  pity  that  we  can't  change  our  ideas  about  baptism 
and  become  Episcopals  in  our  hearts,  jest  to  oblige 
him.  The  women  have,  mostly,  bein'  an  accommo- 
datin'  sex  in  the  main,  with  the  exception  of  Mrs. 
Mallory,  the  blacksmith's  mother,  who  declars  she'd 
rather  give  up  eternal  damnation  any  day  than  im 


mersion.  ' 


"I  ain't  goin'  so  fur  as  that,"  rejoined  old  Adam, 
"an*  mo'over,  when  it  comes  to  the  p'int,  I've  never 
found  any  oncommon  comfort  in  either  conviction 
in  time  of  trouble.  I  go  to  Mr.  Mullen's  church  regu 
lar  every  Sunday,  seein'  the  Baptist  one  is  ten  miles 
off  an'  the  road  heavy,  but  in  my  opinion  he's  a  bit 
too  zealous  to  turn  over  the  notions  of  the  prophets 
an*  set  up  his  own.  He's  at  the  age  when  a  man 
knows  everything  on  earth  an'  generally  knows  it 
wrong." 

"You  see  pa  had  been  settin'  on  the  anxious 
bench  for  forty  years,"  explained  young  Adam,  "an' 


10  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

when  Mr.  Mullen  came,  he  took  it  away  from  under 
him,  so  to  speak,  while  he  was  still  settin'  on  it." 

"  'Twas  my  proper  place,"  said  old  Adam  resent 
fully,  "when  it  comes  to  crops  or  the  weather  I  am 
firm  fixed  enough  in  my  belief,  but  in  matters  of 
religion  I  hold  with  the  onsartain." 

"Only  his  powerful  belief  in  the  Devil  an*  all  his 
works  keeps  him  from  bein'  a  heathen,"  observed 
young  Adam  in  awe-stricken  pride.  "Even  Mr. 
Mullen  can't  move  him,  he's  so  terrible  set." 

"Well,  he  ain't  my  Redeemer,  though  doubtless 
he'd  be  cast  down  if  he  was  to  hear  as  I'd  said  so," 
chuckled  the  elder.  "The  over  earnest,  like  the  women 
folk,  are  better  not  handled  at  all  or  handled  techily. 
I'm  near  blind  as  it  is,  but  ain't  that  the  man  yonder 
leadin'  his  horse  out  of  the  Applegate  road?" 

"  'Taint  the  rector,  but  the  miller,"  responded  his 
son.  "He's  bringin'  over  Mrs.  Bottom's  sack  of  meal 
on  the  back  of  his  grey  mare. " 

"Ah,  he's  one  of  the  folks  that's  gone  over  neck  an' 
crop  to  the  Episcopals,"  said  Solomon  Hatch.  "His 
folks  have  been  Presbyterians  over  at  Piping  Tree 
sence  the  time  of  Noah,  but  he  recites  the  Creed  now 
as  loud  as  he  used  to  sing  the  doxology.  I  declar  his 
voice  boomed  out  so  in  my  years  last  Sunday  that  I 
was  obleeged  to  put  up  my  hands  to  keep  'em  from 
splittin'.  Have  you  ever  marked,  Mr.  Doolittle, 
havin'  had  the  experience  of  ninety  years,  that  when  a 
man  once  takes  up  with  a  heresy,  he  shouts  a  heap 
louder  than  them  that  was  born  an'  baptised  in  it? 
It  seems  as  if  they  can't  desert  the  ancient  ways  with 
out  defying  'em  as  well." 

"'Tis  so,  'tis  so,"  admitted  old  Adam,  wagging  his 


AT  BOTTOM'S  ORDINARY  11 

head,  "but  Abel  Revercomb  was  al'ays  the  sort  that 
could  measure  nothin'  less  than  a  bushel.  The  pity 
with  big-natured  folk  is  that  they  plough  up  a  mountain 
and  trip  at  last  over  a  pea- vine!" 

From  the  gloom  and  brightness  of  the  Applegate 
road  there  emerged  the  large  figure  of  a  young  man, 
who  led  a  handsome  grey  mare  by  the  halter.  As 
he  moved  against  the  coloured  screen  of  the  leaves 
something  of  the  beauty  of  the  desolate  landscape 
showed  in  his  face  —  the  look  of  almost  autumnal 
sadness  that  one  finds,  occasionally,  in  the  eyes  of  the 
imaginative  rustic.  He  wore  a  pair  of  sheepskin 
leggins  into  which  the  ends  of  his  corduroy  trousers 
were  stuffed  slightly  below  the  knees.  His  head  was 
bare,  and  from  the  open  neck  of  his  blue  flannel  shirt, 
faded  from  many  washings,  the  muscles  in  his  throat 
stood  out  like  cords  in  the  red-brown  flesh.  From  his 
uncovered  dark  hair  to  his  heavy  boots,  he  was  pow 
dered  with  the  white  dust  of  his  mill,  the  smell  of  which 
floated  to  the  group  under  the  mulberry  tree  as  he 
passed  up  the  walk  to  the  tavern. 

"I  lay  he  seed  Molly  Merry  weather  comin'  up  from 
the  low  grounds, "  remarked  Solomon,  when  the  young 
man  had  moved  out  of  earshot. 

"Thar's  truth  spoken  for  once,  if  only  by  accident," 
retorted  old  Adam.  "Yonder  comes  Reuben  Merry- 
weather's  wagon  now,  laden  wTith  fodder.  Is  thar 
anybody  settin'  on  it,  young  Adam?  My  eyes  is  too 
po'  to  make  out." 

"Molly  Merryweather,  who  else?"  responded  the 
younger. 

The  wagon  approached  slowly,  piled  high  with  fod 
der  and  drawn  by  a  pair  of  old  oxen.  In  the  centre 


12  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

of  the  load  a  girl  was  sitting,  with  a  pink  sunbonnet 
on  her  shoulders,  and  the  light  wind,  which  drove  in 
gusts  from  the  river,  blowing  the  bunch  of  clustering 
brown  curls  on  her  neck.  She  was  a  small  vivid  crea 
ture,  with  a  sunburned  colour  and  changeable  blue 
eyes  that  shone  almost  green  in  the  sunlight. 

"Terr'ble  light  minded  as  you  can  tell  to  look  at 
her,"  said  Solomon  Hatch,  "she's  soft  enough,  so  my 
wife  says,  where  sick  folks  an'  children  an'  animals 
are  consarned,  but  she  acts  as  if  men  war  born  without 
common  feelin's  of  natur  an'  didn't  come  inside  the 
Commandments.  It's  beyond  me  how  a  kind-hearted 
woman  can  be  so  onmerciful  to  an  entire  sex. " 

"Had  it  been  otherwise  'twould  have  been  down 
right  disproof  of  God's  providence  and  the  bond  of 
matrimony,"  responded  old  Adam. 

"True,  true,  Mr.  Doolittle,"  admitted  Solomon, 
somewhat  abashed.  "Thar  ain't  any  in  these  parts 
as  can  equal  you  on  the  Scriptures,  as  I've  said  over  an' 
over  agin.  It's  good  luck  for  the  Almighty  that  He 
has  got  you  on  His  side,  so  to  speak,  to  help  Him  con 
found  His  enemies." 

"Thar're  two  sides  to  that,  I  reckon,  seein'  I  con 
found  not  only  His  enemies,  but  His  sar vents.  Sech 
is  the  shot  an'  shell  of  my  logic  that  the  righteous 
fall  before  it  as  fast  as  the  wicked  —  faster  even  I 
might  say  if  I  war  speakin'  particular.  Have  you 
marked  how  skeery  Mr.  Mullen  has  growed  about 
meetin'  my  eyes  over  the  rail  of  the  pulpit?  Why, 
'twas  only  yesterday  that  I  brought  my  guns  to  bear 
on  the  resurrection  of  the  body,  an '  bio  wed  it  to  atoms 
in  his  presence.  'Now  thar's  Reuben  Merry  weather 
who  buried  one  leg  at  Manassas,  Mr.  Mullen,'  I  said 


AT  BOTTOM'S  ORDINARY  13 

as  pleasant  an'  natchel  as  if  I  warn't  about  to  confound 
him,  'an'  what  I'd  like  to  have  made  clear  an'  easy  to 
me,  suh,  is  what  use  the  Almighty  is  goin'  to  make  of 
that  odd  leg  on  the  Day  of  Jedgment?  Will  he  add 
a  new  one  onto  Reuben,'  I  axed,  'when,  as  plain  as 
logic  will  have  it,  it  won't  be  a  resurrection,  but  a 
creation,  or  will  he  start  that  leg  a-trampin'  by  itself 
all  the  way  from  Manassas  to  jine  the  other  at  Old 
Church?'  The  parson  had  been  holdin'  pretty  free 
all  the  mornin'  with  nobody  daring  to  contradict 
him,  and  a  man  more  taken  aback  by  the  power  of 
logic  my  sight  never  lit  on.  'Spare  me,  Mr.  Doolittle,' 
was  all  he  said,  never  a  word  mo'.  'Spare  me,  Mr, 
Doolittle.' " 

"Ah,  a  tough  customer  you  are,"  commented  Sol 
omon,  "an'  what  answer  did  you  make  to  that,  suh?" 

Old  Adam's  pipe  returned  to  his  mouth,  and  he  puffed 
slowly  a  minute.  "'Twas  a  cry  for  mercy,  Solomon, 
so  I  spared  him, "  he  responded. 

The  wagon  had  reached  the  well,  and  without  stop 
ping,  the  large  white-and-red  oxen  moved  on  into  the 
turnpike.  Bending  from  her  high  seat,  Molly  Merry- 
weather  smiled  at  the  miller,  who  made  a  single  stride  to 
ward  her.  Then  her  glance  passed  to  the  stranger,  and 
for  an  instant  she  held  his  gaze  with  a  pair  of  eyes  that 
appeared  to  reflect  his  in  shape,  setting  and  colour. 
In  the  man's  face  there  showed  perplexity,  admiration, 
ironic  amusement;  in  the  girl's  there  was  a  glimmer 
of  the  smile  with  which  she  had  challenged  the  ador 
ing  look  of  the  miller. 

The  flush  left  the  features  of  young  Revercomb,  and 
he  turned  back,  with  a  scowl  on  his  forehead,  while  old 
Adam  cackled  softly  over  the  stem  of  his  pipe. 


14  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

"Wiles  come  as  natchel  to  women  as  wickedness  to 
men,  young  Adam,"  he  said.  "The  time  to  beware 
of  'em  is  in  yo'  youth  befo'  they've  bewitched  yo'. 
Why,  'tis  only  since  I've  turned  ninety  that  I've  trusted 
myself  to  think  upon  the  sex  with  freedom." 

"I'm  bewarin',"  replied  his  son,  "but  when  Molly 
Merryweather  widens  her  eyes  and  bites  her  under- 
lip,  it  ain't  in  the  natur  of  man  or  beast  to  stand 
out  agin  her.  Why,  if  it  had  been  anybody  else  but 
the  rector  I  could  have  sworn  I  saw  him  squeezin'  her 
hand  when  he  let  down  the  bars  for  her  last  Sunday. " 

"It's  well  knowed  that  when  he  goes  to  upbraid  her 
for  makin'  eyes  at  him  durin'  the  'Have  mercy  on  me/ 
he  takes  a  mortal  long  time  about  the  business," 
responded  Solomon,  "but,  good  Lord,  'tain't  fur  me 
to  wish  it  different,  seein'  it  only  bears  out  all  I've 
argured  about  false  doctrines  an'  evil  practice.  From 
the  sprinklin'  of  the  head  thar's  but  a  single  step  down 
ward  to  the  holdin'  of  hands. " 

'Well,  I'm  a  weak  man  like  the  rest  of  you," 
rejoined  young  Adam,  "an*  though  I'm  sound  on 
the  doctrines  —  in  practice  I  sometimes  backslide. 
I'm  thankful,  however,  it's  the  lesser  sin  an'  don't  set 
so  heavy  on  the  stomach. " 

"Ah,  it's  the  light  women  like  Molly  Merryweather 
that  draws  the  eyes  of  the  young,"  lamented  old 
Adam. 

"A  pretty  bit  of  vanity,  is  she?"  inquired  the  stran 
ger  lightly,  and  fell  back  the  next  instant  before  the 
vigorous  form  of  the  miller,  who  swung  round  upon 
him  with  the  smothered  retort,  "That's  a  lie!"  The 
boyish  face  of  the  young  countryman  had  paled 
under  his  sunburn  and  he  spoke  with  the  suppressed 


AT  BOTTOM'S  ORDINARY  15 

passion  of  a  man  who  is  not  easily  angered  and  who 
responds  to  the  pressure  of  some  absorbing  emotion. 

"Lord,  Lord,  Abel,  Mr.  Jonathan  warn't  meanin' 
no  particular  disrespect,  nor  mo'  was  I,"  quavered  old 
Adam. 

"You're  too  pipin'  hot,  miller,"  interposed  Solomon. 
"They  warn't  meanin'  any  harm  to  you  nor  to  the  gal 
either.  With  half  the  county  courtin'  her  it  ain't 
to  be  expected  that  she'd  go  as  sober  as  a  grey  mare, 
is  it?" 

"Well,  they're  wastin'  their  time,"  retorted  the 
miller,  "for  she  marries  me,  thank  God,  this  coming 
April." 

Turning  away  the  next  instant,  he  vaulted  astride 
the  bare  back  of  the  mare,  and  started  at  a  gallop  in 
the  direction  of  the  turnpike. 

"I'll  be  blessed  if  that  little  gal  of  Reuben  Merry- 
weather's  ain't  his  religion,"  commented  young 
Adam. 

"An'  he's  of  the  opinion  that  he's  going  to  marry 
her  this  comin'  spring,"  cackled  Solomon.  "Well, 
I  could  be  namin5  two  or  three  others  of  the  same  mind, 
if  I'd  take  the  trouble.  It's  all  sensible  enough  to 
lambaste  the  women  when  they  don't  pick  up  every 
virtue  that  we  throw  away,  but  what's  to  be  expected 
of  'em,  I  ax,  when  all  the  men  sence  Adam  have  been 
praisin'  the  sober  kind  of  gal  while  they  war  runnin' 
arter  the  silly?  Thar 're  some  among  'em,  I  reckon, 
as  have  reasoned  out  to  themselves  that  a  man's 
pursuit  speaks  louder  in  the  years,  arte;*  all,  thai*  hj*» 
praise.  Now,  tnar's  a  fine,  promisin'  farmer,  Ii£& 
the  miller  gone  runnin'  loose,  mo's  the  pity." 

;"A  kind  heart  at  bottom,"  said   old   Adam,  "but 


16  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

he's  got  a  deal  of  larnin'  to  do  befo'  he'll  rest  content 
to  bide  along  quietly  in  the  same  world  with  human 
natur." 

"Oh,  he's  like  the  Revercombs  from  the  beginnin'," 
protested  Solomon,  "slow  an'  peaceable  an'  silent 
until  you  rouse  'em,  but  when  they're  once  roused, 
they're  roused  beyond  God  or  devil. " 

"Is  this  young  Cain  or  Abel  the  head  of  the  family? " 
inquired  the  stranger. 

"Bless  you,  no,  Mr.  Jonathan,  he  ain't  the  head  — 
for  thar's  his  brother  Abner  still  livin'  —  but, 
head  or  tail,  he's  the  only  part  that  counts,  when  it 
comes  to  that.  Until  the  boy  grew  up  an'  took  hold 
of  things,  the  Revercombs  warn't  nothin'  mo'  than 
slack  fisted,  out-at-heel  po'  white  trash,  as  the  niggers 
say,  though  the  old  man,  Abel's  grandfather,  al'ays 
lays  claim  to  bein'  connected  with  the  real  Revercombs, 
higher  up  in  the  State  —  However  that  may  be, 
befo'  the  war  thar  warn't  no  place  for  sech  as  them, 
an'  'tis  only  since  times  have  changed  an'  the  bottom 
begun  to  press  up  to  the  top  that  anybody  has  heerd 
of  'em.  Abel  went  to  school  somehow  by  hook  or 
crook  an'  got  a  good  bit  of  book  larnin',  they  say, 
an'  then  he  came  back  here  an'  went  to  turnin'  up 
every  stone  an' stick  on  the  place.  He  ploughed  an' 
he  sowed  an'  he  reaped  till  he'd  saved  up  enough  to 
buy  that  piece  of  low  ground  betwixt  his  house  and 
the  grist-mill.  Then  Ebenezer  Timberlake  died  of 
the  dropsy  an'  the  first  thing  folks  knew,  Abel  had 
moved  over  and  turned  miller.  All  the  grain  that's 
raised  about  here  now  goes  to  his  mill,  an'  they  say 
he'll  be  throwin'  out  the  old  and  puttin'  in  new-fangled 
machinery  befo'  the  year  is  up.  He's  the  foremost 


AT  BOTTOM'S  ORDINARY  17 

man  in  these  parts,  suh,  unless  you  war  to  come  to 
Jordan's  Journey  to  live  like  yo'  uncle." 

"To  live  like  my  uncle,"  repeated  the  young  man, 
with  an  ironic  intonation  that  escaped  the  ears  of  old 
Adam.  "But  what  of  the  miller's  little  sweetheart 
with  the  short  hair  and  the  divine  smile?  Whose 
daughter  is  she?" 

Old  Adam's  thin  lips  flattened  until  a  single  loos 
ened  tooth  midway  of  his  lower  gum  wagged  impishly 
back  and  forth.  His  face,  sunburned  and  frosted  like 
the  hardened  rind  of  some  winter  fruit,  revealed  the 
prominent  bones  of  the  skull  under  the  sunken  flesh. 
One  of  his  gnarled  old  hands,  trembling  and  red, 
clutched  the  clay  bowl  of  his  pipe;  the  other,  with  the 
callous  skin  of  the  palm  showing  under  the  bent 
fingers,  rested  haW  open  on  the  leather  patch  that 
covered  the  knee  of  his  overalls.  A  picture  of  toil  worn 
age,  of  the  inevitable  end  of  all  mortal  labour,  he  had 
sat  for  hours  in  the  faint  sunshine,  smiling  with  his 
sunken,  babyish  mouth  at  the  brood  of  white  turkeys 
that  crowded  about  the  well. 

"Well,  she's  Reuben  Merry  weather's  granddaughter, 
suh,"  replied  Solomon  in  the  place  of  the  elder^ 
"He  was  overseer  at  Jordan's  Journey,  you  know, 
durin'  the  old  gentleman's  lifetime,  after  the  last 
Jordan  died  and  the  place  was  bought  by  yo'  uncle. 
Ah,  'twas  different,  suh,  when  the  Jordans  war 
livin'!" 

Some  furtive  malice  in  his  tone  caused  the  stranger 
to  turn  sharply  upon  him. 

"The  girl's  mother  —  who  was  she?"  he  asked. 

"Janet  Merryweather,  the  prettiest  gal  that  ever 
set  foot  on  these  roads.  Ah,  'twas  a  sad  story,  was 


18  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

hers,  an5  the  less  said  about  it,  the  soonest  forgotten. 
Thar  was  some  folks,  the  miller  among  'em,  that 
dropped  dead  out  with  the  old  minister  —  that  was 
befo'  Mr.  Mullen's  time  —  for  not  wantin*  her  to  be 
laid  in  the  churchyard.  A  hard  case,  doubtless,  but 
a  pious  man  such  as  I  likes  to  feel  sartain  that  however 
much  he  may  have  fooled  along  with  sinful  women  in 
this  world,  only  the  most  respectable  of  thar  sex  will 
rise  around  him  at  the  Jedgment." 

"And  the  father?"  inquired  the  stranger,  with  a 
sound  as  if  he  drew  in  his  breath  sharply. 

"Accordin'  to  the  Law  an'  the  Prophets  she  hadn't 
any.  That  may  be  goin'  agin  natur,  suh,  but  'tis 
stickin'  close  to  Holy  Writ  an'  the  wisdom  of  God. " 

To  this  the  young  man's  only  response  was  a  sudden 
angry  aversion  that  showed  in  his  face.  Then  lifting 
his  horse's  head  from  the  trodden  grass  by  the  well, 
he  sprang  into  the  saddle,  and  started,  as  the  miller 
had  done,  over  the  three  roads  into  the  turnpike. 
Remembering  as  he  passed  the  gate  posts  that  he 
had  spoken  no  parting  word  to  the  group  under  the 
mulberry  tree,  he  raised  himself  in  his  stirrups,  and 
called  back  "Good  day  to  you.  Many  thanks," 
in  his  pleasant  voice. 


CHAPTER  II 

IN    WHICH    DESTINY    WEARS    THE    COMIC    MASK 

PUTTING  his  horse  to  a  canter,  Mr.  Jonathan 
Gay  rode  through  the  old  gate  into  the  turnpike. 
His  still  indignant  look  was  fixed  on  the  heavy  wheel- 
ruts  ahead,  while  his  handsome  though  fleshy  figure 
inclined  slightly  forward  in  the  saddle  after  a  foreign 
fashion.  Seen  close  at  hand  his  face,  which  was 
impressive  at  a  distance,  lost  a  certain  distinction  of 
contour,  as  though  the  marks  of  experience  had  blurred, 
rather  than  accentuated,  the  original  type.  The 
bones  of  forehead  and  nose  still  showed  classic  in 
outline,  but  in  moulding  the  mouth  and  chin  nature 
had  not  adhered  closely  to  the  aristocratic  structure 
beneath.  The  flesh  sagged  a  little  in  places;  the  brow 
was  a  trifle  too  heavy,  the  jaw  a  trifle  too  prominent, 
the  lips  under  the  short  dark  moustache  were  a  trifle 
too  full.  Yet  in  spite  of  this  coarseness  of  finish,  his 
face  was  well  coloured,  attractive,  and  full  of  generous, 
if  whimsical,  humour.  A  judge  of  men  would  have 
seen  in  it  proof  that  Mr.  Gay's  character  consisted 
less  in  a  body  of  organized  tendencies  than  in  a  proces 
sion  of  impulses. 

White  with  dust  the  turnpike  crawled  straight 
ahead  between  blood-red  clumps  of  sumach  and  bram 
ble  on  which  the  faint  sunlight  still  shone.  At  in 
tervals,  where  the  dripping  from  over-hanging  boughs 
had  worn  the  road  into  dangerous  hollows,  boles  of 

19 


20  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

young  saplings  had  been  placed  cross-wise  in  a  cor 
duroy  pattern,  and  above  them  clouds  of  small  be 
lated  butterflies  drifted  in  the  wind  like  blown  yellow 
rose  leaves.  On  the  right  the  thin  corn  shocks 
looked  as  if  they  were  sculptured  in  bronze,  and 
amid  them  there  appeared  presently  the  bent  figure 
of  a  harvester,  outlined  in  dull  blue  against  a  sky  of 
burnt  orange.  From  the  low  grounds  beside  the 
river  a  mist  floated  up,  clinging  in  fleecy  shreds  to 
the  short  grass  that  grew  in  and  out  of  the  bare  stub 
ble.  The  aspect  of  melancholy,  which  was  depressing 
even  in  the  broad  glare  of  noon,  became  almost  in 
tolerable  under  the  waning  light  of  the  afterglow. 
Miles  of  loneliness  stretched  on  either  side  of  the  turn 
pike,  which  trailed,  without  fork  or  bend,  into  the 
flat  distance  beyond  the  great  pine  at  the  bars. 

For  the  twentieth  time  since  he  had  left  the  tavern, 
Mr.  Gay,  whose  habit  it  was  to  appear  whimsical 
when  he  felt  despondent,  declared  to  himself  that 
he'd  be  damned  if  the  game  was  worth  half  what  the 
candle  was  likely  to  cost  him.  Having  arrived,  with 
out  notable  misadventure,  at  the  age  of  thirty,  he 
had  already  reduced  experience  to  a  series  of  episodes 
and  had  embraced  the  casual  less  as  a  pastime  than  as 
a  philosophy. 

"If  the  worst  conies  to  the  worst  —  hang  it!  —  I 
suppose  I  may  hunt  a  Molly  Cotton-tail,"  he  grum 
bled,  bringing  his  horse's  gait  down  to  an  amble. 
"There  ought  to  be  good  hounds  about,  judging  from 
the  hang-dog  look  of  the  natives.  Why  in  thunder 
did  the  old  boy  want  to  bury  himself  and  his  heirs 
forever  in  this  god-forsaken  land's  end,  and  what  in 
the  deuce  have  mother  and  Aunt  Kesiah  done  with 


DESTINY  WEARS  THE  COMIC  MASK         21 

themselves  down  here  for  the  last  twenty  years? 
Two  thousand  acres?  Damn  it!  I'd  rather  have 
six  feet  on  good  English  soil!  Came  to  get  rid  of  one 
woman,  did  he?  —  and  tumbled  into  a  pretty  puddle 
with  another  as  soon  as  he  got  here.  By  George,  it's  in 
the  bone  and  it  is  obliged  to  come  out  in  the  blood. 
A  Gay  will  go  on  ogling  the  sex,  I  suppose,  as  long 
as  he  is  able  to  totter  back  from  the  edge  of  the  grave." 
As  he  approached  the  blazed  pine,  a  spot  of  dark 
ness,  which  he  had  at  first  mistaken  for  a  small  tree, 
detached  itself  from  the  surrounding  shadows,  and 
assumed  gradually  a  human  shape.  His  immediate 
impression  was  that  the  shape  was  a  woman  and  that 
she  was  young.  With  his  next  breath  he  became 
aware  that  she  was  also  beautiful.  In  the  fading 
light  her  silhouette  stood  out  as  distinctly  against 
the  mellow  background  of  sky,  as  did  the  great  pine 
which  marked  the  almost  obliterated  path  over  the 
fields.  Her  dress  was  the  ordinary  calico  one,  of  some 
dull  purplish  shade,  worn  by  the  wives  and  daughters 
of  the  neighbouring  farmers;  and  on  her  bare  white 
arm,  with  its  upturned  sleeve,  she  carried  a  small 
split  basket  half  filled  with  persimmons.  She  was  of 
an  almost  pure  Saxon  type  —  tall,  broad-shouldered, 
deep-bosomed,  with  a  skin  the  colour  of  new  milk, 
and  soft  ashen  hair  parted  smoothly  over  her  ears 
and  coiled  in  a  large,  loose  knot  at  the  back  of  her 
head.  As  he  reached  her  she  smiled  faintly  and  a 
little  brown  mole  at  the  corner  of  her  mouth  played 
charmingly  up  and  down.  After  the  first  minute, 
Gay  found  himself  fascinated  by  this  single  imper 
fection  in  her  otherwise  flawless  features.  More 
than  her  beautv  he  felt  that  it  stirred  his  blood  and 


22  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

aroused  in  him  the  physical  tenderness  which  he 
associated  always  with  some  vague  chivalrous 
impulse. 

She  moved  slightly  when  he  dismounted  beside  her, 
and  a  number  of  small  splotches  of  black  circling 
around  her  resolved  themselves  into  a  bodyguard 
of  little  negroes,  clad  in  checked  pinafores,  with 
their  scant  locks  wrapped  tightly  with  crimson  cotton. 

"May  I  let  down  the  bars  for  you?"  he  asked, 
turning  to  look  into  her  face  with  a  smile,  "and  do 
you  take  your  collection  of  piccaninnies  along  for 
protection  or  for  amusement?" 

"Grandma  doesn't  like  me  to  go  out  alone,  sir  — 
so  many  dreadful  things  happen,"  she  answered 
gently,  with  an  utter  absence  of  humour.  "I  can't 
take  anybody  who  is  at  work,  so  I  let  the  little  darkies 
come.  Mary  Jo  is  the  oldest,  and  she's  only  six." 

"Is  your  home  near  here?" 

"I  live  at  the  mill.  It's  a  mile  farther  on,  but 
there  is  a  short  cut." 

"Then  you  are  related  to  the  miller,  Mr.  Rever- 
comb  —  that  fine  looking  chap  I  met  at  the  ordinary?" 

"He  is  my  uncle.  I  am  Blossom  Revercomb," 
she  answered. 

"Blossom?     It's  a  pretty  name." 

Her  gaze  dwelt  on  him  calmly  for  an  instant,  with 
the  faintest  quiver  of  her  full  white  lids,  which  ap 
peared  to  weigh  heavily  on  her  rather  prominent  eyes 
of  a  pale  periwinkle  blue. 

"My  real  name  is  Keren-happuch,"  she  said  at 
last,  after  a  struggle  with  herself,  "grandma  bein' 
a  great  Scripture  reader,  chose  it  when  I  was  born  — 
but  they  call  me  Blossom,  for  short." 


DESTINY  WEARS  THE  COMIC  MASK         23 

"And  am  I  permitted,  Miss  Keren-happuch,  to 
call  you  Blossom?" 

Again  she  hesitated,  pondering  gravely. 

"Mary  Jo,  if  you  unwrap  your  hair  your  mother 
will  whip  you,"  she  said  suddenly,  and  went  on  with 
out  a  perceptible  change  of  tone,  "Keren-happuch 
is  an  ugly  name,  and  I  don't  like  it  —  though  grandma 
says  we  oughtn't  to  think  any  of  the  Bible  names 
ugly,  not  even  Gog.  She  is  quite  an  authority  on 
Scripture,  is  grandma,  and  she  can  repeat  the  first 
chapter  in  Chronicles  backward,  which  the  minister 
couldn't  do  when  he  tried." 

"I'd  like  to  hear  the  name  that  would  sound  ugly 
on  your  lips,  Miss  Keren-happuch." 

If  the  sons  of  farmers  had  sought  to  enchant  her 
ears  with  similar  strains,  there  was  no  hint  of  it  in 
the  smiling  eyes  she  lifted  to  his.  The  serenity  of 
her  look  added,  he  thought,  to  her  resemblance  to 
some  pagan  goddess  —  not  to  Artemis  nor  to  Aphro 
dite,  but  to  some  creature  compounded  equally  of 
earth  and  sky.  lo  perhaps,  or  Europa?  By  Jove 
he  had  it  at  last  —  the  Europa  of  Veronese ! 

"There'll  have  to  be  a  big  frost  before  the  per 
simmons  get  sweet,"  she  observed  in  a  voice  that  was 
remarkably  deep  and  full  for  a  woman.  With  the 
faint  light  on  her  classic  head  and  her  milky  skin,  he 
found  a  delicious  piquancy  in  the  remark.  Had  she 
gossiped,  had  she  even  laughed,  the  effect  would  have 
been  disastrous.  Europa,  he  was  vaguely  aware, 
would  hardly  have  condescended  to  coquetry.  Her 
speech,  like  her  glance,  would  be  brief,  simple,  direct. 

"Tell  me  about  the  people  here,"  he  asked  after  a 
pause,  in  which  he  plucked  idly  at  the  red-topped 


24  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

orchard  grass  through  which  they  were  passing.  Be 
hind  them  the  six  little  negroes  walked  primly  in 
single  file,  Mary  Jo  in  the  lead  and  a  chocolate-coloured 
atom  of  two  toddling  at  the  tail  of  the  procession. 
From  time  to  time  shrill  squeaks  went  up  from  the 
rear  when  a  startled  partridge  whirred  over  the  pas 
ture  or  a  bare  brown  foot  came  down  on  a  toad  or  a 
grasshopper. 

As  she  made  no  reply,  he  added  in  a  more  intimate 
tone,  "I  am  Jonathan  Gay,  of  Jordan's  Journey,  as 
I  suppose  you  know." 

'  The  old  gentleman's  nephew? "  she  said, 
while  she  drew  slightly  away  from  him.  "Mary  Jo, 
did  you  tell  Tobias's  mammy  that  he  was  coming 
along?" 

"Nawm,  I  ain  done  tole  nobody  caze  dar  ain  no 
body  done  ax  me." 

"But  I  said  that  you  were  not  to  bring  him  with 
out  letting  Mahaly  know.  You  remember  what  a 
whipping  she  gave  him  the  last  time  he  came!" 

At  this  a  dismal  howl  burst  from  Tobias.  "I 
ain't-a-gwine-ter-git-a-whuppin' ! " 

"Lawd,  Miss  Blossom,  hit  cyarn'  hut  Tobias  ez 
hit  ud  hut  de  res'  er  us,"  replied  Mary  Jo,  with  fine 
philosophy,  "case  dar  ain  but  two  years  er  'im  ter 
whup." 

"I  ain't-a-gwine-ter-git-a-whuppin'!"  sang  Tobias 
in  a  passionate  refrain. 

"Now  that's  just  it,"  said  Gay,  feeling  as  though 
he  should  like  to  throttle  the  procession  of  piccanin 
nies.  "What  I  can't  understand  is  why  the  people 
about  here  —  those  I  met  at  Bottom's  Ordinary,  for 
instance,  seem  to  have  disliked  me  even  before  I  came." 


DESTINY  WEARS  THE  COMIC  MASK         25 

Without  surprise  or  embarrassment,  she  changed 
the  basket  from  her  right  to  her  left  arm,  and  this 
simple  movement  had  the  effect  of  placing  him  at  a 
distance,  though  apparently  by  accident. 

"That's  because  of  the  old  gentleman,  I  reckon," 
she  answered,  "my  folks  all  hated  him,  I  don't  know 
why." 

"But  can  you  guess?  You  see  I  really  want  to 
understand.  I've  been  away  since  I  was  eight  years 
old  and  I  have  only  the  haziest  memories." 

The  question  brought  them  into  a  sudden  intimacy, 
as  if  his  impulsive  appeal  to  her  had  established  a 
relation  which  had  not  existed  the  minute  before. 
He  liked  the  look  of  her  strong  shoulders,  of  her  deep 
bosom  rising  in  creamy  white  to  her  throat;  and  the 
hint  of  feminine  weakness  in  her  mouth,  the  quiver 
of  her  red  lower  lip  when  she  talked,  aroused  in  him 
a  swift  and  facile  emotion.  The  melancholy  of  the 
landscape,  reacting  on  the  dangerous  softness  of  his 
mood,  bent  his  nature  toward  her  like  a  flame  driven 
by  wind.  Around  them  the  red-topped  orchard 
grass  faded  to  pale  rose  in  the  twilight,  and  beyond 
the  crumbling  rail  fence  miles  of  feathery  broomsedge 
swept  to  the  pines  that  stood  straight  and  black  against 
the  western  horizon.  Impressions  of  the  hour  and  the 
scene,  of  colour  and  sound,  were  blended  in  the  allure 
ment  which  Nature  proffered  him,  for  her  own  ends, 
through  the  woman  beside  him.  Not  Blossom  Rever- 
comb,  but  the  great  Mother  beguiled  him.  The 
forces  that  moved  in  the  wind,  in  the  waving  broom- 
sedge,  and  in  the  call  of  the  whip-poor-will, 
stirred  in  his  pulses  as  they  stirred  in  the  objects 
around  him.  That  fugitive  attraction  of  the  body, 


26  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

t 

which  Nature  has  shielded  at  the  cost  of  finer  at 
tributes,  leaped  upon  him  like  a  presence  that  had 
waited  in  earth  and  sky.  Loftier  aspirations  van 
ished  before  it.  Not  his  philosophy  but  the  accident 
of  a  woman's  face  worked  for  destiny. 

"I  never  knew  just  how  it  was,"  she  answered 
slowly  as  if  weighing  her  words,  "but  your  uncle  wasn't 
one  of  our  folks,  you  know.  He  bought  the  place 
the  year  before  the  war  broke  out,  and  there  was 
always  some  mystery  about  him  and  about  the  life 
he  led  —  never  speaking  to  anybody  if  he  could  help 
it,  always  keeping  himself  shut  up  when  he  could.  He 
hadn't  a  good  name  in  these  parts,  and  the  house 
hasn't  a  good  name  either,  for  the  darkies  say  it  is 
ha'nted  and  that  old  Mrs.  Jordan — 'ole  Miss'  they 
call  her  —  still  comes  back  out  of  her  grave  to  rebuke 
the  ha'nt  of  Mr.  Jonathan.  There  is  a  path  leading 
from  the  back  porch  to  the  poplar  spring  where  none 
of  them  will  go  for  water  after  nightfall.  Uncle 
Abednego  swears  that  he  met  his  old  master  there 
one  night  when  he  went  down  to  fill  a  bucket  and  that 
a  woman  was  with  him.  It  all  comes,  I  reckon,  of 
Mr.  Jonathan  having  been  found  dead  at  the  spring, 
and  you  know  how  the  darkies  catch  onto  any  silly 
fancy  about  the  dead  walking.  I  don't  believe  much 
in  ha'nts  myself,  though  great-grandma  has  seen  many 
a  one  in  her  day,  and  all  the  servants  at  Jordan's 
Journey  declare  that  the  ghost  of  old  Mr.  Jonathan 
will  never  rest  quiet.  I've  always  wondered  if  your 
mother  and  Miss  Kesiah  were  ever  frightened  by  the 
stories  the  darkies  tell?"  For  a  moment  she  paused, 
and  then  added  softly,  "It  was  all  so  different, 
they  say,  when  the  Jordans  were  living." 


DESTINY  WEARS  THE  COMIC  MASK         27 

Again  the  phrase  which  had  begun  to  irritate  him! 
Who  were  these  dead  and  gone  Jordans  whose  benefi 
cent  memory  still  inhabited  the  house  they  had 
built? 

"I  don't  think  my  mother  would  care  for  such 
stories,"  he  replied  after  a  minute.  "She  has  never 
mentioned  them  in  her  letters." 

"Of  course  nobody  really  puts  faith  in  them,  but 
I  never  pass  the  spring,  if  I  can  help  it,  after  the  sun 
has  gone  down.  It  makes  me  feel  so  dreadfully 
creepy." 

"The  root  of  this  gossip,  I  suppose,  lies  in  the  gen 
eral  dislike  of  my  uncle?" 

"Perhaps  —  I'm  not  sure,"  she  responded,  and  he 
felt  that  her  rustic  simplicity  possessed  a  charm  above 
the  amenities  of  culture.  "The  old  clergyman  — 
that  was  before  Mr.  Mullen's  day  —  when  we  all 
went  to  the  church  over  at  Piping  Tree  —  used  to 
say  that  the  mercy  of  God  would  have  to  exceed  his 
if  He  was  ever  going  to  redeem  him.  I  remember 
hearing  him  tell  grandma  when  I  was  a  child  that 
there  were  a  few  particulars  in  which  he  couldn't 
answer  with  certainty  for  God,  and  that  old  Mr. 
Jonathan  Gay  was  one  of  'em.  'God  Almighty  will 
have  to  find  His  own  way  in  this  matter,'  he  used  to 
declare,  'for  I  wash  my  hands  of  it.'  I'm  sorry,  sir," 
she  finished  contritely,  "I  forgot  he  was  your  own 
blood  relation." 

In  the  spirit  of  this  contrition,  she  changed  the  basket 
back  again  to  her  left  arm;  and  perceiving  his  advantage, 
Gay  acted  upon  it  with  his  accustomed  alacrity. 

"Don't  apologize,  please,  I  am  glad  I  have  this 
from  your  lips  —  not  from  a  stranger's." 


28  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

Under  the  spell  of  her  beauty,  he  was  aware  of  a 
pleasurable  sensation,  as  though  the  pale  rose  of  the 
orchard  grass  had  gone  to  his  head  and  coloured  his 
vision.  There  was  a  thrill  in  feeling  her  large,  soft 
arm  brushing  his  sleeve,  in  watching  the  rise  and  fall 
of  her  bosom  under  her  tight  calico  dress. 

"I  shall  always  know  that  we  were  friends  —  good 
friends,  from  the  first,"  he  resumed  after  a  minute. 

"You  are  very  kind,  sir,"  she  answered,  "this  is 
my  path  over  the  stile  and  it  is  growin'  late  —  Tobias's 
mother  will  surely  give  him  a  whippin'.  I  hope  you 
don't  mind  my  havin'  gathered  these  persimmons  on 
your  land,"  she  concluded,  with  an  honesty  which 
was  relieved  from  crudeness  by  her  physical  dignity, 
"they  are  hardly  fit  to  eat  because  there  has  been  so 
little  frost  yet." 

"Well,  I'm  sorry  for  that,  Miss  Keren-happuch,  or 
shall  it  be  Blossom?" 

"I  like  Blossom  better,"  she  answered  shyly,  lift 
ing  her  scant  calico  skirt  with  one  hand  as  she  mounted 
the  stile. 

"Then  good  night,  lovely  Blossom,"  he  called 
gaily  while  he  turned  back  into  the  bridle  path  which 
led  like  a  frayed  white  seam  over  the  pasture. 


CHAPTER  III 

IN  WHICH  MR.  GAY  ARRIVES  AT  HIS  JOURNEY'S  END 

BROAD  and  low,  with  the  gabled  pediment  of  the 
porch  showing  through  boughs  of  oaks,  and  a  flight 
of  bats  wheeling  over  the  ivied  roof,  the  house  appeared 
to  Gay  beyond  a  slight  swell  in  the  meadows.  The 
grove  of  oaks,  changing  from  dark  red  to  russet,  was 
divided  by  a  short  walk,  bordered  by  clipped  box, 
which  led  to  the  stone  steps  and  to  two  discoloured 
marble  urns  on  which  broken-nosed  Cupids  were 
sporting.  As  he  was  about  to  slip  his  reins  over  the 
back  of  an  iron  chair  on  the  lawn,  a  shriek  in  a  high 
pitched  negro  voice  pierced  his  ears  from  a  half  shut 
tered  dormer-window  in  the  east  wing. 

"Fo*  de  Lawd,  hit's  de  ha'nt  er  ole  marster!  Yes- 
suh  —  Yessuh,  —  I'se  a-comin'  —  Fse  a-comin'." 

The  next  instant  the  window  slammed  with  a  bang, 
and  the  sound  of  flying  footsteps  echoed  through  the 
darkened  interior  of  the  house. 

"Open  the  door,  you  fool!  I'm  not  a  ghost!" 
shouted  Gay,  but  the  only  response  came  in  an  hyster 
ical  babble  of  moans  from  the  negro  quarters  some 
where  in  the  rear  and  in  the  soft  whir  in  his  face  of 
a  leatherwing  bat  as  it  wheeled  low  in  the  twilight. 
There  was  no  smoke  in  the  chimneys,  and  the  square 
old  house,  with  its  hooded  roof  and  its  vacant  windows, 
assumed  a  sinister  and  inhospitable  look  against  the 
background  of  oaks.  His  mother  and  his  aunt,  he 


30  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

concluded,  were  doubtless  away  for  their  winter's 
shopping,  so  lifting  his  horse's  head  from  the  grass, 
he  passed  between  the  marble  urns  and  the  clipped 
box,  and  followed  a  path,  deep  in  leaves,  which  led 
from  the  west  wing  of  the  house  to  the  outside  kitchen 
beyond  a  paved  square  at  the  back.  Half  intelligible 
words  floated  to  him  as  he  approached,  and  from  an 
old  pear-tree  near  the  door  there  was  a  flutter  of  wings 
where  a  brood  of  white  turkeys  settled  to  roost.  Be 
yond  the  bole  of  the  tree  a  small  negro  in  short  skirts 
was  "shooin"'  a  large  rooster  into  the  henhouse,  but 
at  the  muffled  fall  of  Gay's  horse's  hoofs  on  the  dead 
leaves,  she  turned  with  a  choking  sound,  and  fled  to 
the  shelter  of  the  kitchen  at  her  back. 

"My  time's  done  come,  but  I  ain't-a-gwine !  I 
ain't-a-gwine ! "  wailed  the  chorus  within.  "Ole 
marster's  done  come  ter  fotch  me,  but  I  ain't-a-gwine ! 
O  Lawd,  I  ain't-a-gwine!  O  Jesus,  I  ain't-a-gwine!" 

"You  fools,  hold  your  tongues!"  stormed  the 
young  man,  losing  his  temper.  "Send  somebody 
out  here  to  take  my  horse  or  I'll  give  you  something 
to  shout  over  in  earnest." 

The  shrieks  trembled  high  for  an  instant,  and  then 
died  out  in  a  despairing  moan,  while  the  blanched 
face  of  an  old  servant  appeared  in  the  doorway. 

"Is  hit  you  er  yo'  ha'nt,  Marse  Jonathan?"  he 
inquired  humbly. 

"Come  here,  you  doddering  idiot,  and  take  my 
horse." 

But  half  reassured  the  negro  came  a  step  or  two 
forward,  and  made  a  feeble  clutch  at  the  reins,  which 
dropped  from  his  grasp  when  the  roosting  turkeys 
stirred  uneasily  on  the  bough  above. 


MR.  GAY  ARRIVES  AT  HIS  JOURNEY'S  END    31 

"I'se  de  butler,  marster,  en  I  ain  never  sot  foot  in 
de  stable  sence  de  days  er  ole  miss." 

"Where's  my  mother?" 

"  Miss  Angela,  she's  done  gone  up  ter  town  en  Miss 
Kesiah  she's  done  gone  erlong  wid  'er." 

"Is  the  house  closed?" 

"Naw,  suh,  hit  ain  closed,  but  Miss  Molly 
she's  got  de  keys  up  yonder  at  de  house  er  de 
overseer." 

"Well,  send  somebody  with  a  grain  of  sense  out 
here,  and  I'll  look  up  Miss  Molly." 

At  this  the  butler  vanished  promptly  into  the 
kitchen,  and  a  minute  later  a  half -grown  mulatto  boy 
relieved  Gay  of  his  horse,  while  he  pointed  to  a  path 
through  an  old  apple  orchard  that  led  to  the  cottage 
of  the  overseer.  As  the  young  man  passed  under 
the  gnarled  boughs  to  a  short  flagged  walk  before  the 
small,  whitewashed  house  in  which  "Miss  Molly"  lived, 
he  wondered  idly  if  the  lady  who  kept  the  keys  would 
prove  to  be  the  amazing  little  person  he  had  seen  some 
hours  earlier  perched  on  the  load  of  fodder  in  the  ox 
cart.  The  question  was  settled  almost  before  it  was 
asked,  for  a  band  of  lamplight  streamed  suddenly 
from  the  door  of  the  cottage,  and  in  the  centre  of  it 
appeared  the  figure  of  a  girl  in  a  white  dress,  with  red 
stockings  showing  under  her  short  skirts,  and  a  red 
ribbon  filleting  the  thick  brown  curls  on  her  forehead. 
From  her  movements  he  judged  that  she  was  mixing 
a  bowl  of  soft  food  for  the  old  hound  at  her  feet,  and 
he  waited  until  she  had  called  the  dog  inside  for  his 
supper,  before  he  went  forward  and  spoke  her  name 
in  his  pleasant  voice. 

At  the  sound  she  turned  with  a  start,  and  he  saw  her 


32  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

vivid  little  face,  with  the  wonderful  eyes,  go  white 
for  a  minute. 

"So  you  are  Mr.  Jonathan?  I  thought  so,"  she 
said  at  last,  "but  grandfather  told  me  you  had  sent 
no  word  of  your  coming. " 

She  spoke  quickly,  with  a  refinement  of  accent  which 
puzzled  him  until  he  remembered  the  malicious  hints 
Solomon  Hatch  had  let  fall  at  the  tavern.  That  she 
was,  in  reality,  of  his  blood  and  the  child  of  his  uncle, 
he  had  not  doubted  since  the  moment  she  had  smiled 
at  him  from  her  seat  on  the  oxcart.  How  much  was 
known,  he  now  wondered.  Had  his  uncle  provided 
for  her?  Was  his  mother  —  was  his  Aunt  Kesiah  — 
aware  of  the  truth? 

"She  missed  my  letter,  I  suppose,"  he  replied. 
"Has  she  been  long  away?" 

"Only  a  week.  She  is  expected  home  day  after 
to-morrow." 

"Then  I  shall  beg  you  to  open  the  house  for  me." 

She  had  turned  back  to  the  old  hound,  and  was 
bending  over  to  place  his  bowl  of  bread  and  milk  on 
the  hearth.  A  log  fire,  in  which  a  few  pine  branches 
stood  out  illuminated  like  boughs  of  flr.me,  filled  the 
big  stone  fireplace,  which  was  crudely  whitewashed 
to  resemble  the  low  walls  of  the  room.  A  kettle  hung 
on  an  iron  crane  before  the  blaze,  and  the  singing 
of  the  water  made  a  cheerful  noise  amid  a  silence  which 
struck  Gay  suddenly  as  hostile.  When  the  girl  raised 
her  head  he  saw  that  her  face  had  grown  hard  and 
cold,  and  that  the  expression  of  her  eyes  had  changed 
to  one  of  indignant  surprise.  The  charming  coquetry 
had  fled  from  her  look,  yet  her  evident  aversion  piqued 
him  into  a  half  smiling,  half  serious  interest.  He 


MR.  GAY  ARRIVES  AT  HIS  JOURNEY'S  END    33 

wondered  if  she  would  marry  that  fine  looking  rustic, 
the  miller,  and  if  the  riotous  Gay  blood  in  her  veins 
would  flow  placidly  in  her  mother's  class?  Had  she, 
too,  inherited,  if  not  the  name,  yet  the  weaknesses 
of  an  older  race?  Was  she,  like  himself,  cursed  with 
swift  fancies  and  swifter  disillusionments?  How  frail  she 
was,  and  how  brilliant!  How  innocent  and  how  bitter! 

He  turned  away,  ostensibly  to  examine  a  print  on 
the  wall,  and  while  his  back  was  toward  her,  he  felt 
that  her  gaze  stabbed  him  like  the  thrust  of  a  knife. 
Wheeling  quickly  about,  he  met  her  look,  but  to  his 
amazement,  she  continued  to  stare  back  at  him  with 
the  expression  of  indignant  surprise  still  in  her  face. 
How  she  hated  him  and,  by  Jove,  how  she  could  hate ! 
She  reminded  him  of  a  little  wild  brown  animal  as 
she  stood  there  with  her  teeth  showing  between  her 
parted  red  lips  and  her  eyes  flashing  defiance.  The 
next  minute  he  found  himself  asking  if  she  could  ever 
grow  gentle  —  could  ever  soften  enough  to  allow  her 
self  to  be  stroked?  He  remembered  Solomon  Hatch's 
remark  that  "she  was  onmerciful  to  an  entire  sex," 
and  in  spite  of  his  effort  at  composure,  a  laugh  sprang 
to  his  lips. 

In  the  centre  of  the  room  a  table  was  laid,  and 
going  over  to  it,  she  busied  herself  with  the  cups  and 
saucers  as  though  she  were  anxious  to  put  a  disagree 
able  presence  out  of  her  thoughts. 

"May  I  share  your  supper?"  he  asked,  and  waited, 
not  without  amusement,  for  her  answer. 

"I'm  sorry  there  isn't  any  for  you  at  the  big  house, "" 
she  answered  politely.  "If  you  will  sit  down,  I'll 
tell  Delily  to  bring  in  some  "batterbread." 

"And  you?" 


34  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

"I'll  have  mine  with  grandfather.  He's  out  in 
the  barn  giving  medicine  to  the  red  cow." 

While  she  spoke  Delily  entered  with  a  plate  of  corn- 
bread  and  a  pot  of  coffee,  and  a  minute  later  Reuben 
Merryweather  paused  on  the  threshold  to  shake  off 
a  sprinkling  of  bran  from  his  hair  and  beard.  He 
was  a  bent,  mild  looking  old  man,  with  a  wooden  leg 
which  made  a  stumping  noise  when  he  walked,  and  a 
pair  of  wistful  brown  eyes,  like  those  of  an  aged  hound 
that  has  been  worn  out  by  hard  service.  Past  seventy 
now,  his  youth  had  been  trained  to  a  different  civi 
lization,  and  there  was  a  touching  gentleness  in  his 
face,  as  if  he  expressed  still  the  mental  attitude  of  a 
class  which  had  existed  merely  as  a  support  or  a  foil  to 
the  order  above  it.  Without  spirit  to  resent,  he,  with  his 
fellows,  had  endured  the  greatest  evils  of  slavery. 
With  the  curse  of  free  labour  on  the  land,  there  had 
been  no  incentive  for  toil,  no  hire  for  the  labourer. 
Like  an  incubus  the  system  had  lain  over  them,  stifling 
all  energy,  checking  all  progress,  retarding  all  pros 
perity  save  the  prosperity  of  the  great  land-owners. 
Then  the  soil  had  changed  hands,  and  where  the 
plough  had  broken  the  earth,  the  seeds  of  a  democracy 
had  germinated  and  put  forth  from  the  very  blood  of 
the  battlefields.  In  the  upward  pressure  of  class, 
he  had  seen  the  stability  of  custom  yield  at  last  to  the 
impetus  of  an  energy  that  was  not  racial  but  individual. 
Yet  from  the  transition  he  had  remained  always  a 
little  apart.  Reverence  had  become  for  him  a  habit 
of  mind,  and  he  had  learned  that  respect  could  outlive 
even  a  belief  in  the  thing  upon  which  it  was  founded. 
Mr.  Jonathan  and  he  had  been  soldiers  together. 
His  old  commander  still  entered  his  thoughts  to  the 


MR.  GAY  ARRIVES  AT  HIS  JOURNEY'S  END    35 

rattle  of  musketry  and  the  roar  of  cannon,  and  a 
single  sublime  action  at  Malvern  Hill  had  served  in 
the  mind  of  the  soldier  to  spread  a  legendary  glamour 
over  a  life  which  held  hardly  another  incident  that  was 
worthy  of  remembrance. 

At  his  entrance  Molly  melted  from  her  hostile  at 
titude,  and  while  she  hung  on  the  old  man's  breast, 
Gay  noticed,  with  surprise,  that  she  was  made  up  of 
enchanting  curves  and  delicious  softness.  Her 
sharpened  features  grew  rounder,  and  her  thin  red 
lips  lost  their  hardness  of  outline.  When  she  raised 
her  head  after  a  minute,  he  saw  that  the  light  in  her 
eyes  adorned  and  enriched  her.  By  Jove,  he  had 
never  imagined  that  she  could  change  and  colour  like 
that! 

"You  are  late,  grandfather,"  said  the  girl,  "I  was 
coming  to  look  for  you  with  a  lantern." 

"The  red  cow  kept  me,"  answered  the  old  man, 
adding  as  he  held  out  his  hand  to  Gay,  "So  you've 
come  at  last,  Mr.  Jonathan.  Your  mother  will  be 
pleased." 

"I  was  sorry  to  find  her  absent,"  replied  Gay,  "and 
I  was  just  asking  your  granddaughter  if  she  would 
permit  me  to  join  you  at  supper?" 

"To  be  sure  —  to  be  sure,"  responded  Reuben,  with 
a  cheerfulness  which  struck  Gay  as  singularly  pathetic. 
"After  supper  Molly  will  go  over  with  Patsey  and 
see  that  you  are  made  comfortable." 

The  old  hound,  blind  and  toothless,  fawned  at  his 
knees,  and  leaning  over,  he  caressed  it  with  a  knotted 
and  trembling  hand. 

"Has  Spot  had  his  supper,  Molly?" 

"Yes,  grandfather.      He  can  eat  only  soft  bread 


36  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

and  gravy."  At  her  voice  the  hound  groped  toward 
her,  and  stooping,  she  laid  her  soft,  flushed  cheek  on 
his  head. 

"Well,  sit  down,  suh,  sit  down,"  said  Reuben,  speak 
ing  timidly  as  if  he  were  not  sure  he  had  chosen  the 
right  word.  "If  you'll  tell  Delily,  honey,  Mr.  Jona 
than  will  have  his  supper." 

"On  condition  that  you  let  me  share  yours,  Mr. 
Merry  weather,"  insisted  Gay,  in  his  genial  tone.  "If 
you're  going  to  make  company  of  me,  I  shall  go 
hungry  until  to-morrow." 

From  a  wooden  safe  in  the  corner  Molly  brought  a 
plate  and  a  cup,  and  made  a  place  for  the  young  man 
at  the  end  of  the  red-and-white  cloth  on  the  table. 
Then  she  turned  away,  without  speaking,  and  sat 
down  behind  the  tin  coffeepot,  which  emitted  a  fra 
grant  steam. 

"Cream  and  sugar?"  she  inquired  presently,  meet 
ing  his  eyes  over  the  glass  lamp  which  stood  midway 
between  them. 

Gay  had  been  talking  to  Reuben  about  the  roads  — 
"jolly  bad  roads,"  he  called  them, /'wasn't  it  possible 
to  make  them  decent  for  riding?"  Looking  up  at  the 
girl's  question,  he  answered  absently,  "two  lumps. 
Cream?  Yes,  please,  a  little,"  and  then  continued  to 
stare  at  her  with  a  vague  and  impersonal  wonder.  She 
was  half  savage,  of  course,  with  red  hands,  and  bad  man 
ners  and  dressed  like  a  boy  that  had  got  into  skirts  for  a 
joke  —  but,  by  George,  there  was  something  about 
her  that  bit  into  the  fancy.  Not  a  beauty  like  his 
Europa  of  the  pasture  (who  was,  when  it  came  to 
that?)  —  but  a  fascinating  little  beggar,  with  a  quality 
of  sudden  surprises  that  he  could  describe  by  no  word 


MR.  GAY  ARRIVES  AT  HIS  JOURNEY'S  END    37 

except  "iridescent."  He  liked  the  high  arch  of 
her  brows;  but  her  nose  v/asn't  good  and  her  lips 
were  too  thin  except  when  she  smiled.  When  she 
smiled!  It  was  her  smile,  after  all,  that  made  her 
seem  a  thing  of  softness  and  bloom  born  to  be 
kissed. 

Reuben  ate  his  food  rapidly,  pouring  his  coffee  into 
the  saucer,  and  drinking  it  in  loud  gulps  that  began 
presently  to  make  Gay  feel  decidedly  nervous.  Once 
the  young  man  inadvertently  glanced  toward  him, 
and  turning  away  the  instant  afterwards,  he  found 
the  girl's  eyes  watching  him  with  a  defiant  and  threat 
ening  look.  Her  passionate  defence  of  Reuben  re 
minded  Gay  of  a  nesting  bird  under  the  eye  of  the 
hunter.  She  did  not  plead,  she  dared  —  actually 
dared  him  to  criticise  the  old  man  even  in  his  thoughts ! 

That  Molly  herself  was  half  educated  and  possessed 
some  smattering  of  culture,  it  was  easy  to  see.  She 
was  less  rustic  in  her  speech  than  his  Europa,  and 
there  was  the  look  of  breeding,  or  of  blood,  in  the  fine 
poise  of  her  head,  in  her  small  shapely  hands,  which 
he  remembered  were  a  distinguishing  mark  of  the 
Gays. 

"Mr.  Mullen  came  for  you  in  his  cart,"  said  Reuben, 
glancing  from  one  to  the  other  of  his  hearers  with  his 
gentle  and  humble  look.  "I  told  him  you  must  have 
forgotten  as  you'd  ridden  down  to  the  low  grounds." 

"No,  I  didn't  forget,"  replied  Molly,  indifferent 
apparently  to  the  restraint  of  Gay's  presence,  "I  did 
it  on  purpose."  Meeting  the  young  man's  amused 
and  enquiring  expression,  she  added  defiantly,  "There 
are  plenty  of  girls  that  are  always  ready  to  go  with 
him  and  it's  because  I'm  not  that  he  wants  me." 


38  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

"He's  not  the  only  one,  to  judge  from  what  I  heard 
at  the  ordinary. " 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders  —  an  odd  gesture  for  a 
rustic  coquette  —  while  a  frown  overshadowed  her 
features. 

"They're  all  alike,"  she  retorted  scornfully.  "If 
you  go  over  to  the  mill  you'll  probably  find  Abel 
Revercomb  sulking  and  brow-beating  his  mother 
because  I  smiled  at  you  this  afternoon.  And  I  did 
it  only  to  plague  him!" 

"Molly's  a  good  girl,"  said  Reuben,  rather  as  if 
he  expected  the  assertion  to  be  disputed,  "but  she  was 
taught  to  despise  folks  when  she  was  a  baby —  wasn't 
you,  pretty?" 

"Not  you  —  never  you,  grandfather." 

The  intimate  nature  of  the  conversation  grated  upon 
Gay  not  a  little.  There  was  something  splendidly 
barbaric  about  the  girl,  and  yet  the  mixture  of  her 
childishness  and  her  cynicism  affected  him  unpleas 
antly  rather  than  otherwise.  His  ideal  woman  —  the 
woman  of  the  early  Victorian  period  —  was  submissive 
and  clinging.  He  was  perfectly  assured  that  she  would 
have  borne  her  wrongs,  and  even  her  mother's  wrongs, 
with  humility.  Meekness  had  always  seemed  to 
him  the  becoming  mental  and  facial  expression  for 
the  sex;  and  that  a  woman  should  resent  appeared 
almost  as  indelicate  as  that  she  should  propose. 

When  supper  was  over,  and  Reuben  had  settled  to 
his  pipe,  with  the  old  hound  at  his  feet,  Molly  took 
down  a  bunch  of  keys  from  a  nail  in  the  wall,  and  lit 
a  lantern  with  a  taper  which  she  selected  from  a  china 
vase  on  the  mantelpiece.  Once  outside  she  walked 
a  little  ahead  of  Gay  and  the  yellow  blaze  of  the  lantern 


MR.  GAY  ARRIVES  AT  HIS  JOURNEY'S  END    39 

flitted  like  a  luminous  bird  over  the  flagged  walk 
bordered  by  gooseberry  bushes.  Between  the  stones, 
which  were  hollowed  by'  the  tread  of  generations, 
nature  had  embroidered  the  bare  places  with  delicate 
patterns  of  moss. 

At  the  kitchen  the  girl  stopped  to  summon  Patsey, 
the  maid,  who  was  discovered  roasting  an  apple  at  the 
end  of  a  long  string  before  the  logs. 

"I  am  going  to  the  big  house.  Come  and  make  up 
the  bed  in  the  blue  room,"  Gay  heard  through  the 
door. 

"Yes'm,  Miss  Molly,  I'se  a-comin'  in  jes  a  minute." 

"And  bring  plenty  of  lightwood.  He  will  probably 
want  a  fire." 

With  this  she  appeared  again  on  the  outside,  crossed 
the  paved  square  to  the  house,  and  selecting  a  large 
key,  unlocked  the  door,  which  grated  on  its  hinges 
as  Gay  pushed  it  open.  Following  her  into  the  hall, 
he  stood  back  while  she  lit  a  row  of  tallow  candles,  in 
old  silver  sconces,  which  extended  up  the  broad  mahog 
any  staircase  to  the  upper  landing.  One  by  one  as 
she  applied  the  taper,  the  candles  flashed  out  in  a 
misty  circle,  and  then  rising  in  a  clear  flame,  shone 
on  her  upraised  hand  and  on  the  brilliant  red  of  her 
lips  and  cheeks. 

"That  is  your  mother's  room,"  she  said,  pointing 
to  a  closed  door,  "and  this  is  yours.  Patsey  will 
make  a  fire." 

"It's  rather  gloomy,  isn't  it?" 

"Shall  I  bring  you  wine?  I  have  the  key  to  the 
cellar." 

"Brandy,  if  you  please.  The  place  feels  as  if  it 
had  been  shut  up  for  a  century." 


40  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

"It  was  your  uncle's  room.  Do  you  mind  sleeping 
here?  It's  the  easiest  to  get  ready." 

"Not  with  a  fire  —  and  I  may  have  a  lamp,  I  sup 
pose?" 

At  his  question  Patsey  appeared  with  an  armful  of 
resinous  pine,  and  a  few  minutes  later,  a  cheerful  blaze 
was  chasing  the  shadows  up  the  great  brick  chimney. 
When  Molly  returned  with  the  brandy,  Gay  was  lean 
ing  against  the  mantelpiece  idly  burning  a  bunch  of 
dried  cat-tails  he  had  taken  from  a  blue-and-white 
china  vase. 

"It's  a  gloomy  old  business,  isn't  it?"  he  observed, 
glancing  from  the  high  canopied  bed  with  its  hangings 
of  faded  damask  to  an  engraving  of  the  Marriage  of 
Pocahontas  between  the  dormer-windows.  "If  there 
are  ghosts  about,  I  suppose  I'd  better  prepare  to  face 
them." 

"Only  in  the  west  wing,  the  darkies  say,  but  I  think 
they  are  bats.  As  for  those  in  the  haunt's  walk,  I 
never  believed  in  them.  Patsey  is  bringing  your 
lamp,  and  here  is  the  brandy.  Can  I  do  anything 
else  for  you?" 

"Only  tell  me,"  he  burst  out,  "why  in  thunder  the 
whole  county  hates  me?" 

She  laughed  shortly.  "I  can't  tell  you  —  wait  and 
find  out." 

Her  audacity  half  angered,  half  paralyzed  him. 
"What  a  vixen  you  are!"  he  observed  presently  with 
grudging  respect. 

The  crimson  flooded  her  face,  and  he  watched  her 
teeth  gleam  dangerously,  as  if  she  were  bracing  her 
self  for  a  retort.  The  impulse  to  torment  her  was 
strong  in  him,  and  he  yielded  to  it  much  as  a  boy 


MR.  GAY  ARRIVES  AT  HIS  JOURNEY'S  END    41 

might  have  teased  a  small  captive  animal  of  the 
woods. 

"With  such  a  temper  you  ought  to  have  been  an 
ugly  woman,"  he  said,  "but  you're  so  pretty  I'm 
strongly  inclined  to  kiss  you." 

"If  you  do,  I'll  strike  you,"  she  gasped. 

The  virgin  in  her  showed  fierce  and  passionate,  not 
shy  and  fleeting.  That  she  was  by  instinct  savagely 
pure,  he  could  tell  by  the  look  of  her. 

"I  believe  it  so  perfectly  that  I've  no  intention  of 
trying,"  he  rejoined. 

"I'm  not  half  so  pretty  as  my  mother  was,"  she  said 
after  a  pause. 

Her  loyalty  to  the  unfortunate  Janet  touched  him  to 
sympathy.  "Don't  quarrel  with  me,  Molly,"  he 
pleaded,  "for  I  mean  to  be  friends  with  you." 

As  he  uttered  the  words,  he  was  conscious  of  a 
pleasant  feeling  of  self-approbation  while  his  nature 
vibrated  to  the  lofty  impulse.  This  sensation  was 
so  gratifying  while  it  lasted  that  his  manner  assumed 
a  certain  austerity  as  of  one  who  had  determined 
to  be  virtuous  at  any  cost.  Morally  he  was  on  stilts 
for  the  moment,  and  the  sense  of  elevation  was  as 
novel  as  it  was  insecure. 

"I  know  you  are  a  good  girl,  Molly,"  he  observed 
staidly,  "that  is  why  I  am  so  anxious  to  be  your 
friend." 

"Is  there  nothing  more  that  I  can  do  for  you?"  she 
inquired,  with  frigid  reserve,  as  she  took  up  the  lantern. 

"Yes,  one  thing  —  you  can  shake  hands." 

The  expression  of  indignant  surprise  appeared  again 
in  her  face,  and  she  fell  back  a  step,  shaking  her  head 
stubbornly  as  she  did  so. 


42  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

"I'd  rather  not  —  if  you  don't  mind,"  she  answered. 

"But  if  I  do  mind  —  and  I  do." 

"Still  I'd  rather  not." 

"Do  you  really  dislike  me  so  much?  What  have  I 
done  to  deserve  it?" 

"I  don't  like  men  even  when  I  pretend  to." 

"Do  you  dislike  me  as  much  as  you  dislike  the 
miller?" 

"More." 

"Or  the  rector?" 

"Oh,  far  more.     You  are  a  Gay." 

"Yes,  I  am  a  Gay,"  he  might  have  retorted, 
"and  you,  my  pretty  savage,  are  very  much  a  Gay, 
also." 

Swinging  the  lantern  in  her  hand,  she  moved  to  the 
door,  as  if  she  were  anxious  to  put  an  end  to  a  conver 
sation  which  had  become  suddenly  too  intimate.  On 
the  threshold  she  looked  back,  and  remarked  in  a  pre 
cise,  authoritative  voice: 

"There  are  blankets  in  the  bottom  drawer  if  you  find 
you  haven't  covering  enough." 

"I  shall  remember  —  there  are  blankets  in  the 
bottom  drawer." 

"Patsey  will  bring  hot  water  at  eight  and  Uncle 
Abednego  will  give  you  breakfast  in  the  dining-room." 

"Then  I'm  not  to  have  it  with  you?" 

"With  me?  Oh,  I  live  with  grandfather.  I  never 
come  to  the  big  house  except  when  Mrs.  Gay  is  in 
town." 

"Do  you  see  nothing,  then,  of  my  mother  when  she 
is  at  home?" 

"Sometimes  I  help  her  to  make  raspberry  vinegar 
or  preserves.  If  you  hear  a  noise  in  the  night  it  is 


MR.  GAY  ARRIVES  AT  HIS  JOURNEY'S  EXD    43 

only  the  acorns  dropping  on  the  roof.  There  are 
so  many  oaks.  Good  night,  Mr.  Jonathan." 

"Good  night,"  he  returned,  "I  wish  you'd  shake 
hands,"  —  but  she  had  vanished. 

The  room  was  cosy  and  warm  now  —  and  flinging 
himself  into  a  chair  with  deep  arms  that  stood  on  the 
hearth,  he  lit  his  cigar  and  sipped  drowsily  the  glass 
of  brandy  she  had  left  on  a  silver  tray  on  the  table. 
The  ceiling  was  ridiculously  high  —  what  a  waste  of 
good  bricks  and  mortar!  —  the  room  was  ridiculously 
large!  On  the  smooth  white  walls  reddish  shadows 
moved  in  a  fantastic  procession,  and  from  the  big 
chintz-covered  lounge  the  monstrous  blue  poppies 
leaped  out  into  the  firelight.  The  high  canopy  over 
the  bed  was  draped  with  prim  folds  of  damask,  and 
the  coverlet  was  of  some  quaint  crocheted  work  that 
hung  in  fringed  ends  to  the  floor.  Here  again  from 
the  threadbare  velvet  carpet  the  blue  poppies  stared 
back  at  him. 

An  acorn  dropped  on  the  roof,  and  in  spite  of  Molly's 
warning,  he  started  and  glanced  toward  the  window, 
where  a  frosted  pattern  of  ivy  showed  like  a  delicate 
lace  work  on  the  small  greenish  panes.  Another 
dropped;  then  another.  Gradually  he  began  to  listen 
for  the  sound  and  to  miss  it  when  there  came  a  long 
silence.  One  might  easily  imagine  it  to  be  the  tapping 
of  ghostly  fingers  —  of  the  fingers  of  pretty  Janet 
Merryweather  —  some  quarter  of  a  century  earlier. 
Her  daughter  was  hardly  more  than  twenty  now,  he 
supposed,  and  he  wondered  how  long  the  mad  idyllic 
period  had  lasted  before  her  birth?  Turning  to  the 
books  on  the  table,  he  opened  one  and  a  yellowed  frag 
ment  of  paper  fluttered  to  the  floor  at  his  feet.  ^Yhen 


44  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

he  stooped  after  it,  he  saw  that  there  was  a  single  word 
on  it  traced  faintly  in  his  uncle's  hand:  "To-morrow." 
And  then,  being  a  person  whose  imagination  dealt 
only  with  the  obvious,  he  undressed,  blew  out  the 
light,  and  fell  peacefully  asleep  to  the  dropping  of 
acorns. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE     REVERCOMBS 

ON  THE  morning  after  the  meeting  at  Bottom's 
Ordinary,  Abel  Revercomb  came  out  on  the  porch 
of  the  little  house  in  which  he  lived,  and  looked  across 
the  steep  rocky  road  to  the  mill-race  which  ran  above 
a  silver  stream  known  as  Sycamore  Creek.  The 
grist-mill,  a  primitive  log  building,  worked  after 
ancient  methods,  had  stood  for  a  hundred  years  or 
more  beside  a  crooked  sycamore  tree,  which  grew  mid 
way  of  the  stream  and  shaded  the  wheel  and  the 
shingled  roof  from  the  blue  sky  above.  The  old 
wooden  race,  on  which  the  young  green  mosses 
shone  like  a  coating  of  fresh  paint  on  a  faded 
surface,  ran  for  a  short  distance  over  the  brook,  where 
the  broad  yellow  leaves  drifted  down  to  the  deep 
pond  below.  Across  the  slippery  poplar  log,  which 
divided  the  mill  from  the  road  and  the  house  occupied 
by  the  miller,  there  was  a  stretch  of  good  corn  land, 
where  the  corn  stood  in  shocks  after  the  harvest,  and 
beyond  this  the  feathery  bloom  of  the  broomsedge 
ran  on  to  the  luminous  band  of  marshes  on  the  far 
horizon. 

From  the  open  door  before  which  the  miller  was 
standing,  there  came  the  clatter  of  breakfast  dishes 
and  the  sound  of  a  Scripture  text  quoted  in  the  voice 
of  his  mother.  Above  his  head  several  strings  of 

45 


46  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

red  pepper  hung  drying,  and  these  rustled  in  the  wind 
with  a  grating  noise  that  seemed  an  accompaniment 
to  the  speaker  in  the  kitchen. 

"The  Lord  said  that,  an'  I  reckon  He  knew  His 
own  mind  when  He  was  speakin'  it,"  remarked  Sarah 
Kevercomb  as  she  put  down  the  coffeepot. 

"I  declare  there's  mother  at  it  again,"  observed 
Abel  to  himself  with  a  frown  —  for  it  was  Sarah's 
fate  that  an  excess  of  virtue  should  have  wrought 
all  the  evil  of  a  positive  vice.  From  the  days 
of  her  infancy,  when  she  had  displayed  in  the 
cradle  a  power  of  self-denial  at  which  her  pastor 
had  marvelled,  she  had  continued  to  sacrifice  her 
inclinations  in  a  manner  which  had  rendered  unen 
durable  the  lives  around  her.  Her  parents  had  suc 
cumbed  to  it;  her  husband  had  died  of  it;  her  children 
had  resigned  themselves  to  it  or  rebelled  against  it 
according  to  the  quality  of  their  moral  fibre.  All  her 
life  she  had  laboured  to  make  people  happy,  and  the 
result  of  this  exalted  determination  was  a  cowed  and 
resentful  family. 

"  Yo'  buckwheat  cakes  will  be  stone  cold  if  you  don't 
come  along  in,  Abel,"  she  called  now  from  the  kitchen. 
"You've  been  lookin'  kind  of  sallow  these  last  days, 
so  I've  got  a  spoonful  of  molasses  and  sulphur,  laid 
right  by  yo'  plate." 

"  For  heaven's  sake,  take  it  away,"  he  retorted 
irritably.  "I  don't  need  it." 

"I  reckon  I  can  tell  by  the  look  of  you  better 
than  you  can  by  the  feelin', "  rejoined  Sarah  grimly, 
"an'  if  you  know  what's  good  for  you,  you'll  come 
and  swallow  it  right  down." 

"I'll  be  hanged  if  I  do!"  exclaimed  Abel  without 


THE  REVERCOMBS  47 

moving,  and  his  tone  implied  that  the  ceaseless  nag 
ging  had  got  at  last  on  his  nerves.  He  was  a  robust, 
well-built,  red-brown  young  fellow,  who  smelt  always 
of  freshly  ground  meal,  as  though  his  body,  from 
long  usage,  had  grown  to  exhale  the  cleanly  odour  of 
the  trade  he  followed.  His  hair  was  thick,  dark  and 
powdered  usually  with  mill-dust.  His  eyes,  of  a  clear 
bright  hazel,  deep-set  and  piercing,  expressed  a  vio 
lence  of  nature  which  his  firm,  thin-lipped  mouth, 
bare  of  beard  or  moustache,  appeared  to  deny.  A 
certain  tenacity  —  a  suggestion  of  stubbornness  in 
the  jaw,  gave  the  final  hint  to  his  character,  and  re 
vealed  that  temperamental  intolerance  of  others 
which  constitutes  the  strength  as  well  as  the  weakness 
of  the  rustic  who  has  risen  out  of  his  class.  An  opinion 
once  embraced  acquired  the  authority  of  a  revelation; 
a  passion  once  yielded  to  was  transformed  into  a 
principle.  Impulsive,  generous,  undisciplined,  he 
represented,  after  all,  but  the  reaction  from  the 
spirit  of  racial  submission  which  was  embodied  in 
Reuben  Merryweather.  Tradition  had  bound  Reuben 
in  thongs  of  steel;  Abel  was  conscious  only  of  his 
liberated  intelligence  —  of  a  passionate  desire  to  test 
to  the  fullest  the  certainty  of  that  liberation.  As 
the  elder  had  suffered  beneath  the  weight  of  the  es 
tablished  order,  so  the  younger  showed  the  disturbing 
effects  of  a  freedom  which  had  resulted  from  a  too  rapid 
change  in  economic  conditions  rather  than  from  the 
more  gradual  evolution  of  class.  When  political  respon 
sibility  was  thrust  on  the  plainer  people  instead  of 
sought  by  them,  it  was  but  natural  that  the  process 
of  adjustment  should  appear  rough  rather  than  smooth. 
The  land  which  had  belonged  to  the  few  became  after 


48  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

the  war  within  reach  of  the  many.  At  first  the  lower 
classes  had  held  back,  paralyzed  by  the  burden  of 
slavery.  The  soil,  impoverished,  wasted,  untilled, 
rested  under  the  shadow  of  the  old  names  —  the  old 
customs.  This  mole-like  blindness  of  the  poorer 
whites  persisted  still  for  a  quarter  of  a  century; 
and  the  awakening  was  possible  only  after  the  newer 
generation  had  come  to  its  growth.  To  them  the  past 
authority  was  but  a  shadow;  the  past  reverence  but 
a  delusion.  When  the  black  labourer  worked,  not 
freely,  but  for  hire,  the  wages  of  the  white  labourer 
went  up  as  by  magic.  To  rise  under  the  old  system 
had  been  so  impossible  that  Abel's  ancestors  had  got 
out  of  the  habit  of  trying.  The  beneficent  charity 
of  the  great  landowners  had  extinguished  the  small 
incentive  that  might  have  remained  —  and  to  give 
had  been  so  much  the  prerogative  of  a  single  class, 
that  to  receive  had  become  a  part  of  the  privileges 
of  another.  In  that  pleasant  idyllic  period  the  one 
act  which  went  unhonoured  and  unrewarded  was  the 
act  of  toil.  So  in  the  odour  of  shiftlessness  Abel's 
father  had  died;  so  after  ninety  years  his  grand 
parents  still  sat  by  the  hearth  to  which  his  mother 
had  called  him. 

The  house,  an  oblong  frame  building,  newly  shingled, 
was  set  back  from  the  road  in  a  straggling  orchard  of 
pear-trees,  which  bore  a  hard  green  fruit  too  sour  to 
be  used  except  in  the  form  of  preserves.  Small 
shanties,  including  a  woodhouse,  a  henhouse,  and  a 
smokehouse  for  drying  bacon  and  hams,  flanked  the 
kitchen  garden  at  the  rear,  while  in  front  a  short, 
gravelled  path,  bordered  by  portulaca,  led  to  the 
paling  gate  at  the  branch  road  which  ran  into  the 


THE  REVERCOMBS  49 

turnpike  a  mile  or  so  farther  on.  In  Abel's  dreams 
another  house  was  already  rising  in  the  fair  green 
meadow  beyond  the  mill-race.  He  had  consecrated 
a  strip  of  giant  pines  to  this  purpose,  and  often,  while 
he  lingered  in  the  door  of  his  mill,  he  felt  himself 
battling  against  the  desire  to  take  down  his  axe  and 
strike  his  first  blow  toward  the  building  of  Molly's 
home.  His  mother  might  nag  at  him  about  Molly 
now,  but  let  them  be  fharried,  he  told  himself,  with 
sanguine  masculine  assurance,  and  both  women 
would  reconcile  themselves  to  a  situation  that  neither 
could  amend.  Before  the  immediate  ache  of  his 
longing  for  the  girl,  all  other  considerations  evaporated 
to  thin  air.  He  would  rather  be  unhappy  with  her, 
he  thought  passionately,  than  give  her  up! 

"Abel,  if  you  don't  stop  mopin'  out  thar  an'  come 
along  in,  I'll  clear  off  the  dishes!"  called  his  mother 
again  in  her  rasping  voice  which  sounded  as  if 
she  were  choking  in  a  perpetual  spasm  of  moral 
indignation. 

Jerking  his  shoulders  slightly  in  an  unspoken  pro 
test,  Abel  turned  and  entered  the  kitchen,  where 
Sarah  Revercomb  —  tall,  spare  and  commanding  — 
was  preparing  two  bowls  of  mush  for  the  aged  people, 
who  could  eat  only  soft  food  and  complained  bitterly 
while  eating  that.  She  was  a  woman  of  some  sixty 
years,  with  a  stern  handsome  face  under  harsh  bands 
of  yellowish  gray  hair,  and  a  mouth  that  sank  in  at 
one  corner  where  her  upper  teeth  had  been  drawn. 
Her  figure  was  erect  and  flat  as  a  lath,  and  this  flatness 
was  accentuated  by  the  extreme  scantiness  of  her 
drab  calico  dress.  In  her  youth  she  had  been  beau 
tiful  in  a  hard,  obvious  fashion,  and  her  eyes  would 


50  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

have  been  still  fine  except  for  their  bitter  and  hostile 
expression. 

At  the  table  there  were  Abner  Revercomb,  some 
ten  or  twelve  years  older  than  Abel,  and  Archie, 
the  youngest  child,  whom  Sarah  adored  and  bullied. 
Blossom  was  busy  about  something  in  the  cup 
board,  and  on  either  side  of  the  stove  the  old 
people  sat  with  their  small,  suspicious  eyes  fixed  on 
the  pan  of  mush  which  Sarah  was  dividing  with  a 
large  wooden  spoon  into  two  equal  portions.  Each 
feared  that  the  other  would  receive  the  larger  share, 
and  each  watched  anxiously  to  see  into  which  bowl 
the  last  spoonful  would  fall.  For  a  week  they  had 
not  spoken.  Their  old  age  was  racked  by  a  sharp 
and  furious  jealousy,  which  was  quite  as  exclusive  and 
not  less  exacting  than  their  earlier  passion  of  love. 

With  a  finishing  swirl  of  the  big  wooden  spoon,  the 
last  drops  of  mush  fell  into  grandfather's  bowl,  while 
a  sly  and  injured  look  appeared  instantly  on  the  face 
of  his  wife.  She  was  not  hungry,  but  it  annoyed  her 
unspeakably  that  she  should  not  be  given  the  larger 
portion  of  food.  Her  rheumatism  was  severer  than 
her  husband's,  and  it  seemed  to  her  that  this  alone 
should  have  entitled  her  to  the  greater  share  of  atten 
tion.  There  was  a  fierce  contempt  in  her  manner  when 
she  alluded  to  his  age  or  to  his  infirmities,  for  although 
he  was  three  years  the  elder,  he  was  still  chirpy  and 
cheerful,  with  many  summers,  as  she  said  resentfully, 
left  in  him  yet. 

"Breakfast  is  ready,  grannies,"  remarked  Sarah, 
who  had  allowed  her  coffee  to  grow  cold  while  she 
looked  after  the  others;  "are  you  ready  to  eat?" 

Grandmother's    sly    little    eyes    slanted    over    her 


THE  REVERCOMBS  51 

hooked  nose  in  the  direction  of  the  two  bowls  which 
her  daughter-in-law  was  about  to  sprinkle  with  sugar. 
An  idea  entered  her  old  head  which  made  her  chuckle 
with  pleasure,,  and  when  her  mush  had  been  covered, 
she  croaked  out  suddenly  that  she  would  take  her  break 
fast  unsweetened.  "I'm  too  bad  to  take  sugar  — 
give  that  to  him  —  he  has  a  stomach  to  stand  it," 
she  said.  Though  her  mouth  watered  for  sweets,  by 
this  trick  she  had  outwitted  grandfather,  and  she 
felt  that  it  was  better  than  sugar. 

The  kitchen  was  a  large,  comfortable  room,  with 
strings  of  red  peppers  hanging  from  the  ceiling,  and 
boards  of  sliced  apples  drying  on  upturned  flour 
barrels  near  the  door.  The  bright  homespun  carpet 
left  a  strip  of  bare  plank  by  the  stove,  and  on  this 
stood  two  hampers  of  black  walnuts  ready  for  storing. 
A  few  coloured  prints,  culled  from  garden  magazines, 
were  tacked  on  the  wall,  and  these,  without  exception, 
represented  blossoms  of  a  miraculous  splendour  and 
size.  In  Sarah's  straitened  and  intolerant  soul  a 
single  passion  had  budded  and  expanded  into  fulfil 
ment.  Stern  to  all  mortal  things,  to  flowers  alone  she 
softened  and  grew  gentle.  From  the  front  steps 
to  the  back,  the  kitchen  was  filled  with  them.  Boxes, 
upturned  flour  barrels,  corners  of  china-shelves  and 
window-sills,  showed  bowers  of  luxuriant  leaf  and 
blossom.  Her  calla  lilies  had  long  been  famous  in 
the  county;  they  had  taken  first  prizes  at  innumer 
able  fairs,  and  whenever  there  was  a  wedding  or  a 
funeral  in  the  neighbourhood,  the  tall  green  stalks 
were  clipped  bare  of  bloom.  Many  were  the  dead 
hands  that  had  been  laid  in  the  earth  clasping  her 
lilies.  This  thought  had  been  for  years  the  chief 


52  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

solace  of  her  life,  and  she  was  accustomed  to  refer  to 
it  in  the  heat  of  religious  debates,  as  though  it  offered 
infallible  proof  of  the  truth  of  her  contention.  After 
calla  lilies,  fuchias  and  tuberoses  did  best  in  her 
hands,  and  she  had  nursed  a  rare  night  blooming 
cereus  for  seven  years  in  the  hope  that  it  would  arrive 
at  perfection  the  following  June.  Her  marriage  had 
been  a  disappointment  to  her,  for  her  husband,  a 
pleasant,  good-looking  fellow,  had  turned  out  an  idler; 
her  children,  with  the  exception  of  Archie,  the  young 
est,  had  never  filled  the  vacancy  in  her  life;  but  in 
her  devotion  to  flowers  there  was  something  of  the 
ecstasy  and  all  of  the  self-abandonment  she  had  missed 
in  her  human  relations. 

As  he  sat  down  at  the  table,  the  miller  nodded 
carelessly  to  his  brothers,  who,  having  finished  their 
bacon  and  cornbread,  were  waiting  patiently  until 
the  buckwheat  cakes  should  be  ready.  The  coloured 
servant  was  never  allowed  to  cook  because,  as  Sarah 
said,  "she  could  not  abide  niggers'  ways,"  and  Blos 
som,  standing  before  the  stove,  with  her  apron  held 
up  to  shield  her  face,  was  turning  the  deliciously 
browning  cakes  with  a  tin  cake  lifter. 

"Ain't  they  done  yet,  daughter?"  asked  Abner  in 
his  amiable  drawling  voice.  He  was  a  silent,  brooding 
man,  heavily  built,  with  a  coarse  reddish  brown  beard, 
stained  with  tobacco  juice,  which  hung  over  his  chest. 
Since  the  death  of  his  wife,  Blossom's  mother,  some 
fifteen  years  before,  he  had  become  more  gloomy, 
more  silent,  more  obstinately  unapproachable.  He 
was  one  who  appeared  to  dwell  always  in  the  shadow 
of  a  great  grief,  and  this  made  him  generally  respected 
by  his  neighbours  though  he  was  seldom  sought. 


THE  REVERCOMBS  53 

People  said  of  him  that  he  was  "a  solid  man  and 
trustworthy,"  but  they  kept  out  of  his  way  unless 
there  was  road  mending  or  a  sale  of  timber  to  be 
arranged. 

Blossom  tossed  the  buckwheat  cakes  into  a  plate 
and  brought  them  to  her  father,  who  helped  himself 
with  his  knife.  When  she  passed  them  to  Abel,  who 
was  feeding  his  favorite  hound  puppy,  Moses,  with 
bacon,  he  shook  his  head  and  drew  back. 

"Give  them  to  mother,  Blossom,  she  never  eats  a 
bite  of  breakfast,"  he  said.  He  was  the  only  ope  of 
Sarah's  sons  who  ever  considered  her,  but  she  was  apt 
to  regard  this  as  a  sign  of  weakness  and  to  resent  it 
with  contumely. 

"I  ain't  hungry,"  she  replied  grimly,  "an'  I  reckon 
I'd  rather  you'd  say  less  about  my  comfort,  Abel,  and 
do  mo'.  Buckwheat  cakes  don't  come  well  from  a 
son  that  flies  into  his  mother's  face  on  the  matter 
of  eternal  damnation." 

Without  replying,  Abel  helped  himself  to  the  cakes 
she  had  refused  and  reached  for  the  jug  of  molasses. 
Sarah  was  in  one  of  her  nagging  moods,  he  knew,  and 
she  disturbed  him  but  little.  The  delight  and  the 
desire  of  first  love  was  upon  him,  and  he  was  thinking 
rapturously  of  the  big  pine  that  would  go  to  the  build 
ing  of  Molly's  house. 

Grandmother,  who  wanted  syrup,  began  to  cry 
softly  because  she  must  eat  her  tasteless  mush.  "He's 
got  the  stomach  to  stand  it,"  she  repeated  bitterly, 
while  her  tears  fell  into  her  bowl. 

"What  is  it,  granny?  Will  you  try  a  bite  of  buck 
wheat?"  inquired  Sarah  solicitously.  She  had  never 
failed  in  her  duty  to  her  husband's  parents,  and  this 


54  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

virtue  also,  she  was  inclined  to  use  as  a  weapon  of 
offense  to  her  children. 

"Give  it  to  him  —  he's  got  teeth  left  to  chaw 
on,"  whimpered  grandmother,  and  her  old  chest 
heaved  with  bitterness  because  grandfather,  who  was 
three  years  the  elder,  still  retained  two  jaw  teeth  on 
one  side  of  his  mouth. 

A  yellow-and-white  cat,  after  vainly  purring  against 
grandmother's  stool,  had  jumped  on  the  window-sill 
in  pursuit  of  a  belated  wasp,  and  Sarah,  rushing  to 
the  rescue  of  her  flowers,  cuffed  the  animal  soundly 
and  placed  her  in  grandfather's  lap.  He  was  a  lover 
of  cats  —  a  harmless  fancy  which  was  a  source  of 
unceasing  annoyance  to  his  wife. 

"Abel,  I  wish  you'd  mend  that  leak  in  the 
smokehouse  after  breakfast,"  remarked  Sarah,  in 
an  aggressive  tone  that  meant  battle.  "Two 
shingles  are  gone  an'  thare  four  more  that  want 
patchin'." 

"I  can't,  I've  got  work  to  do  at  the  mill,"  replied 
Abel,  as  he  rose  from  his  chair.  "Solomon  Hatch 
sent  me  his  corn  to  grind  and  he's  coming  over  to  get 
the  sacks." 

"Well,  I  reckon  I'm  worth  as  much  as  Solomon 
Hatch,  a  little  pasty  faced  critter  like  that,"  rejoined 
Sarah. 

"  Why  can't  Archie  do  it?     What  is  he  good  for?  " 

"I'm  going  hunting  with  Jim  Halloween,"  returned 
Archie  sullenly,  "he's  got  some  young  dogs  he  wants 
to  break  in  to  rabbit  running." 

"I  might  have  known  thar  warn't  nobody  to  do  what 
I  ask  'em,"  observed  Sarah  in  the  voice  and  manner 
of  a  martyr.  "It's  rabbits  or  girls,  one  or  the  other, 


THE  REVERCOMBS  55 

and  if  it  ain't  an  old  hare  it's  some  light-moraled  crit 
ter  like  Molly  Merry  weather." 

Abel's  face  had  changed  to  a  dull  red  and  his  eyes 
blazed. 

"Say  anything  against  Molly,  mother,  an'  I'll 
never  speak  to  you  again!"  he  cried  out  angrily. 

"Thar,  thar,  ma,  you  an'  Abel  are  too  pepper 
tongued  to  get  into  a  quarrel,"  remarked  Abner,  the 
silent,  who  seldom  spoke  except  for  the  promotion 
of  peace.  "I'll  mend  the  roof  for  you  whenever  you 
want  it." 

"I  reckon  I've  got  as  much  right  to  use  my 
tongue  as  anybody  else  has,"  retorted  Sarah,  indig 
nant  because  a  solution  had  been  found  and  her  griev 
ance  was  annulled.  "If  a  girl  ain't  a  fast  one  that 
gets  as  good  as  engaged  to  half  the  young  men  in  the 
county,  then  I'd  like  to  know  who  is,  that's  all?" 

Then,  as  Abel  called  sharply  to  his  fox-hound  puppy 
and  flung  himself  from  the  room,  she  turned  away 
and  went  to  sprinkle  her  calla  lilies.  There  was  an 
agony  in  her  breast,  though  she  would  have  bitten 
out  her  tongue  sooner  than  have  confessed  it.  Her 
strength  lay  in  the  fact  that  never  in  her  life  had  she 
admitted  even  to  herself,  that  she  had  been  in  the 
wrong. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE    MILL 

OUTSIDE,  a  high  wind  was  driving  the  fallen  leaves 
in  swirls  and  eddies,  and  as  Abel  crossed  the  road  to 
the  mill,  he  smelt  the  sharp  autumn  scent  of  the  rot 
ting  mould  under  the  trees.  Frost  still  sparkled  on 
the  bright  green  grasses  that  had  overgrown  the 
sides  of  the  mill-race,  and  the  poplar  log  over  the 
stream  was  as  wet  as  though  the  dancing  shallows 
had  skimmed  it.  Over  the  motionless  wheel  the 
sycamore  shed  its  broad  yellow  leaves  into  the  brook, 
where  they  fluttered  downward  with  a  noise  that 
was  like  the  wind  in  the  tree-tops. 

Inserting  a  key  into  the  rusty  lock,  which  was 
much  too  large  for  it,  Abel  opened  the  door, 
and  counted  Solomon  Hatch's  sacks  of  grist,  which 
stood  in  a  row  beside  a  raised  platform  where  an 
old  mill-stone  was  lying.  Other  sacks  belonging 
to  other  farmers  were  arranged  in  an  orderly  group 
in  one  corner,  and  his  eye  passed  to  them  in  a  busi 
nesslike  appraisement  of  their  contents.  According 
to  an  established  custom  of  toll,  the  eighth  part  of 
the  grain  belonged  to  the  miller;  and  this  had  enabled 
him  to  send  his  own  meal  to  the  city  markets,  where 
there  was  an  increasing  demand  for  the  coarse,  water- 
ground  sort.  Some  day  he  purposed  to  turn  out  the 
old  worn-out  machinery  and  supply  its  place  with 

56 


THE  MILL  57 

modern  inventions,  but  as  yet  this  ambition  was 
remote,  and  the  mill,  worked  after  the  process  of  an 
earlier  century,  had  raised  his  position  to  one  of  com 
parative  comfort  and  respectability.  He  was  known 
to  be  a  man  of  character  and  ambition.  Already  his 
name  had  been  mentioned  as  a  possible  future  repre 
sentative  of  the  labouring  classes  in  the  Virginia 
assembly.  "There  is  no  better  proof  of  the  grit 
that  is  in  the  plain  people  than  the  rise  of  Abel  Rever- 
comb  out  of  Abner,  his  father,"  some  one  had  said 
of  him.  And  from  the  day  when  he  had  picked  his 
first  blackberries  for  old  Mr.  Jonathan  and  tied  his 
earnings  in  a  stocking  foot  as  the  beginning  of  a  fund 
for  schooling,  the  story  of  his  life  had  been  one  of 
struggle  and  of  endurance.  Transition  had  been  the 
part  of  the  generation  before  him.  In  him  the  demo 
cratic  impulse  was  no  longer  fitful  and  uncertain, 
but  had  expanded  into  a  stable  and  indestructible 
purpose. 

Before  starting  the  wheel,  which  he  did  by  thrust 
ing  his  arm  through  the  window  and  lifting  the  gate 
on  the  mill-race,  Abel  took  up  a  broom,  made  of  sedges 
bound  crudely  together,  and  swept  the  smooth  bare 
floor,  which  was  polished  like  that  of  a  ballroom  by 
the  sacks  of  meal  that  had  been  dragged  back  and 
forth  over  the  boards.  From  the  rafters  above,  long 
pale  cobwebs  were  blown  gently  in  the  draught  be 
tween  door  and  window,  and  when  the  mill  had  started, 
the  whole  building  reverberated  to  the  slow  revolu 
tions  of  the  wheel  outside. 

The  miller  had  poured  Solomon  Hatch's  grist  into 
the  hopper,  and  was  about  to  turn  the  wooden  crank 
at  the  side,  when  a  shadow  fell  over  the  threshold, 


58  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

and  Archie  Revercomb  appeared,  with  a  gun  on  his 
shoulder  and  several  fox-hounds  at  his  heels. 

"You'll  have  to  get  Abner  to  help  you  dress  that 
mill-rock,  Abel,"  he  said,  "I'm  off  for  the  morning. 
That's  a  good  pup  of  yours,  but  he's  old  enough  to 
begin  learning." 

With  the  inherited  idleness  of  the  Revercombs,  he 
combined  the  headstrong  impulses  and  dogged  ob 
stinacy  of  his  mother's  stock,  yet  because  of  his  per 
sonal  charm,  these  faults  were  not  only  tolerated, 
but  even  admired  by  his  family. 

"You're  always  off  in  the  mornings  when  there's 
work  to  be  done,"  replied  Abel,  "but  for  heaven's 
sake,  bring  home  a  string  of  hares  to  put  ma  into  a  bet 
ter  humour.  She  whets  her  tongue  on  me  and  I'll 
be  hanged  if  it's  right." 

"She  never  used  to  do  it  till  you  went  over  to  Mr. 
Mullen's  church  and  fell  in  love  with  Molly  Merry- 
weather.  Great  Scott,  I'm  glad  I  don't  stand  in 
either  of  your  shoes  when  it  comes  to  that.  Life's 
too  short  to  pay  for  your  religion  or  your  sweetheart 
every  day  you  live." 

"It  would  have  been  the  same  anyway  —  she's 
put  out  with  me  about  nothing.  I  had  a  right  to  go 
to  Old  Church  if  I  wanted  to,  and  what  on  earth  has 
she  got  against  Mr.  Mullen  anyway,  except  that  he 
couldn't  recite  the  first  chapter  in  Chronicles? 
What  kind  of  religion  does  that  take,  I'd  like  to 
know?" 

The  meal  poured  softly  out  of  the  valve  into  the 
trough  beneath,  and  lifting  a  wooden  scoop,  he  bent 
over  and  scattered  the  pile  in  the  centre.  A  white 
dust  had  settled  on  his  hair  and  clothes,  and  this 


THE  MILL  59 

accentuated  the  glow  in  his  face  and  gave  to  his  whole 
appearance  a  picturesque  and  slightly  theatrical 
cast. 

"If  it  hadn't  been  Molly,  it  would  have  been  some 
one  else,"  he  added  impulsively.  "Ma  would  be  sure 
to  hate  any  woman  she  thought  I'd  fallen  in  love  with. 
It's  born  in  her  to  be  contrary  just  as  it  is  in  that 
hopvine  out  yonder  that  you  can't  train  up  straight." 

"All  the  same,  if  I  were  going  through  fire  and  water 
for  a  girl,  I'd  be  pretty  sure  to  choose  one  that  would 
make  it  worth  my  while  at  the  end.  I  wouldn't 
put  up  with  all  that  hectoring  for  the  sake  of  anybody 
that  was  as  sweet  to  half  a  dozen  other  fellows  as  she 
was  to  me." 

Abel's  face  darkened  threateningly  under  his  sil 
vered  hair. 

"If  you  are  trying  to  hint  anything  against  Molly, 
you'd  as  well  stop  in  the  beginning,"  he  said.  "It 
isn't  right  —  I'll  be  hanged  if  it  is !  —  that  every  man  in 
the  county  should  be  down  on  a  little  thing  like  that, 
no  bigger  than  a  child.  It  wasn't  her  fault,  was  it, 
if  her  father  played  false  with  her  mother?" 

"Oh,  I'm  not  blaming  her,  am  I?  As  far  as  that 
goes  all  the  women  like  her  well  enough,  and  so  do  all 
the  dogs  and  the  children.  The  trouble  seems  to  be, 
doesn't  it,  merely  that  the  men  like  her  too  much?  She's 
got  a  way  with  her,  there's  no  question  about  that." 

"Why  in  thunder  do  you  want  to  blacken  her 
character?" 

"I  wasn't  blackenin'  her  character.  I  merely  meant 
that  she  was  a  flirt,  and  you  know  that  as  well  as  I  do 
—  better,  I  shouldn't  wonder." 

"It's  the  way  she  was  brought  up.     Her  mother 


60  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

was  crazy  for  ten  years  before  she  died,  and  she  taught 
Molly  all  that  foolishness  about  the  meanness  of  men." 

"Oh,  well,  it's  all  right,"  said  Archie  carelessly, 
"only  look  out  that  you  don't  go  too  near  the  fire 
and  get  scorched." 

Whistling  to  the  hounds  that  were  nosing  among 
some  empty  barrels  in  a  dark  corner,  he  shouldered 
his  gun  more  firmly  and  went  off  to  his  hunt. 

After  he  had  gone,  the  miller  stood  for  a  long  while, 
watching  the  meal  pour  from  the  valve.  A  bit  of  chaff 
had  settled  on  his  lashes,  but  without  moving  his  hand 
to  brush  it  away,  he  shook  his  head  once  or  twice  with 
the  gesture  of  an  animal  that  is  stung  by  a  wasp .  * '  Why 
do  they  keep  at  me  about  her?"  he  asked  passionately. 
"Is  it  true  that  she  is  only  playing  with  me  as  she  plays 
with  the  others?"  -but  the  pain  was  too  keen,  and 
turning  away  with  a  sigh,  he  rested  his  elbows  OR 
the  sill  of  the  window  and  looked  out  at  the  moving 
wheel  under  the  gauzy  shadows.  The  sound  of  the 
water  as  it  rushed  through  the  mill-race  into  the 
buckets  and  then  fell  from  the  buckets  into  the 
whirlpool  beneath,  was  loud  in  his  ears  while  his  quick 
glance,  passing  over  the  drifting  yellow  leaves  of 
the  sycamore,  discerned  a  spot  of  vivid  red  in 
the  cornlands  beyond.  The  throbbing  of  his  pulses 
rather  than  the  assurance  of  his  eyes  told  him 
that  Molly  was  approaching;  and  as  the  bit  of  colour 
drew  nearer  amid  the  stubble,  he  recognized  the 
jacket  of  crimson  wool  that  the  girl  wore  as  a  wrap 
on  chill  autumn  mornings.  On  her  head  there  was  a 
small  knitted  cap  matching  the  jacket,  and  this,  resting 
on  her  riotous  brown  curls,  lent  a  touch  of  boyish 
gallantry  to  her  slender  figure.  Like  most  women  of 


THE  MILL  61 

mobile  features  and  ardent  temperament,  her  beauty 
depended  so  largely  upon  her  mood  that  Abel  had 
seen  her  change  from  positive  plainness  to  amazing 
loveliness  in  the  space  of  a  minute.  Her  small  round 
face,  with  its  wonderful  eyes,  dimpled  now  over  the 
crimson  jacket. 

"Abel!"  she  called  softly,  and  paused  with  one 
foot  on  the  log  while  the  water  sparkled  beneath  her. 
Ten  minutes  before  he  had  vowed  to  himself  that  she 
had  used  him  badly  and  he  would  hold  off  until  she 
made  sufficient  amends;  but  in  forming  this  reso 
lution,  he  had  reckoned  without  the  probable  inter 
vention  of  Molly. 

"I  thought  —  as  long  as  I  was  going  by  —  that  I'd 
stop  and  speak  to  you,"  she  said. 

He  shook  his  head,  unsoftened  as  yet  by  her  presence. 
"You  didn't  treat  me  fair  yesterday,  Molly,"  he 
answered. 

"Oh,  T  wanted  to  tell  you  about  that.  I  quite 
meant  to  go  with  you  —  only  it  went  out  of  my  head." 

"That's  a  pretty  excuse,  isn't  it,  to  offer  a  man?" 

"Well,  you  aren't  the  only  one  I've  offered  it  to," 
she  dimpled  enchantingly,  "the  rector  had  to  be 
satisfied  with  it  as  well.  He  asked  me,  too,  and  when 
I  forgot  I'd  promised  you,  I  said  I'd  go  with  him  to 
see  old  Abigail.  Then  I  forgot  that,  too,"  she  added 
with  a  penitent  sigh,  "and  went  down  to  the  low 
grounds." 

"You  managed  to  come  up  in  time  to  meet  Mr. 
Jonathan  at  the  cross-roads,"  he  commented  with 
bitterness. 

A  less  daring  adventurer  than  Molly  would  have 
hesitated  at  his  tone  and  grown  cautious,  but  a  certain 


62  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

blithe  indifference  to  the  consequences  of  her  actions 
was  a  part  of  her  lawless  inheritance  from  the  Gays. 
"I  think  him  very  good-looking,  don't  you?"  she 
inquired  sweetly. 

"Good-looking?  I  should  think  not  —  a  fat  fop 
like  that." 

"Is  he  fat?  I  didn't  notice  it  —  but/  of  course, 
I  didn't  mean  that  he  was  good-looking  in  your  way, 
Abel." 

The  small  flowerlike  shadows  trembled  across  her 
face,  and  beneath  her  feet  the  waves  churned  a  creamy 
foam  that  danced  under  her  like  light.  His  eyes 
warmed  to  her,  yet  he  held  back,  gripped  by  a  passion 
of  jealousy.  For  the  first  time  he  felt  that  he  was 
brought  face  to  face  with  a  rival  who  might  prove 
to  have  the  advantage. 

"I  am  coming  over!"  called  Molly  suddenly,  and 
a  minute  later  she  stood  in  the  square  of  sunshine  that 
entered  the  mill  door. 

Had  he  preserved  then  his  manner  of  distant  cour 
tesy,  it  is  probable  that  she  would  have  melted,  for 
it  was  not  in  her  temperament  to  draw  back  while 
her  prey  showed  an  inclination  for  flight.  But  it 
was  his  nature  to  warm  too  readily  and  to  cool  too 
late,  a  habit  of  constitution  which  causes,  usually,  a 
tragedy  in  matters  of  sex. 

"You  oughtn't  to  treat  me  so,  Molly!"  he  exclaimed 
reproachfully,  and  made  a  step  toward  her. 

"I  couldn't  help  forgetting,  could  I?  It  was  your 
place  to  remind  me." 

Thrust,  to  his  surprise,  upon  the  defensive,  he 
reached  for  her  hand,  which  was  withdrawn  after  it 
had  lain  an  instant  in  his. 


THE  MILL  C3 

"Well,  it  was  my  fault,  then,"  he  said  with  a  gen 
erosity  that  did  him  small  service.  "The  next  time 
I'll  remind  you  every  minute." 

She  smiled  radiantly  as  he  looked  at  her,  and  he 
felt  that  her  indiscretions,  her  lack  of  constancy,  her 
unkindness  even,  were  but  the  sportive  and  innocent 
freaks  of  a  child.  In  his  rustic  sincerity  he  was  for 
ever  at  the  point  of  condemning  her  and  forever  re 
lenting  before  the  appealing  sweetness  of  her  look. 
He  told  himself  twenty  times  a  day  that  she  flirted 
outrageously  with  him,  though  he  still  refused  to 
admit  that  in  her  heart  she  was  to  blame  for  her 
flirting.  A  broad  and  charitable  distinction  divided 
always  the  thing  that  she  was  from  the  thing  that  she 
did.  It  was  as  if  his  love  discerned  in  her  a  quality 
of  soul  of  which  she  was  still  unconscious. 

"Molly,"  he  burst  out  almost  fiercely,  "will  you 
marry  me?" 

The  smile  was  still  in  her  eyes,  but  a  slight  frown 
contracted  her  forehead. 

"I've  told  you  a  hundred  times  that  I  shall  never 
marry  anybody,"  she  answered,  "but  that  if  I  ever 
did- 

"Then  you'd  marry  me." 

"Well,  if  I  were  obliged  to  marry  somebody,  I'd 
rather  marry  you  than  anybody  else." 

"So  you  do  like  me  a  little?" 

"Yes,  I  suppose  I  like  you  a  little  —  but  all  men 
are  the  same  —  mother  used  always  to  tell  me  so." 

Poor  distraught  Janet  Merry  weather !  There  were 
times  when  he  was  seized  with  a  fierce  impatience  of 
her,  for  it  seemed  to  him  that  her  ghost  stood,  like 
the  angel  with  the  drawn  sword,  before  the  closed  gates 


64  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

of  his  paradise.  He  remembered  her  as  a  passionate 
frail  creature,  with  accusing  eyes  that  had  never 
lost  the  expression  with  which  they  had  met  and 
passed  through  some  hour  of  despair  and  disillusion 
ment. 

"But  how  could  she  judge,  Molly?  How  could  she 
judge?"  he  pleaded.  "She  was  ill,  she  wasn't  herself, 
you  must  know  it.  All  men  are  not  alike.  Didn't  I 
fight  her  battles  more  than  once,  when  you  were  a 
child?" 

"I  know,  I  know,"  she  answered  gratefully,  "and 
I  love  you  for  it.  That's  why  I  don't  mind  telling 
you  what  I've  never  told  a  single  one  of  the  others. 
I  haven't  any  heart,  Abel,  that's  the  truth.  It's  all 
play  to  me,  and  I  like  the  game  sometimes  and  some 
times  I  hate  it.  Yet,  whether  I  like  it  or  hate  it,  I 
always  go  on  because  I  can't  help  it.  Your  mother 
once  said  I  had  a  devil  inside  of  me  and  perhaps  she 
was  right  —  it  may  be  that  devil  that  drives  me  on 
and  won't  let  me  stop  even  when  I'm  tired,  and  it 
all  bores  me.  The  rector  thinks  that  I'll  marry 
him  and  turn  pious  and  take  to  Dorcas  societies,  and 
Jim  Halloween  thinks  I'll  marry  him  and  grow  thrifty 
and  take  to  turkey  raising  —  and  you  believe  in  the 
bottom  of  your  heart  that  in  the  end  I'll  fall  into 
your  arms  and  find  happiness  with  your  mother. 
But  you're  all  wrong  —  all  —  all  —  and  I  shan't  do 
any  of  the  things  you  expect  of  me.  I  am  going  to 
stay  here  as  long  as  grandfather  lives,  so  I  can  take 
care  of  him,  and  then  I'll  run  off  somewhere  to  the 
city  and  trim  hats  for  a  living.  When  I  was  at 
school  in  Applegate  I  trimmed  hats  for  all  of  the 
pupils." 


THE  MILL  65 

"Oh,  Molly,  Molly,  I'll  not  give  you  up!  Some  day 
you'll  see  things  differently." 

"Never  —  never.  Now,  I've  warned  you  and  it 
isn't  my  fault  if  you  keep  on  after  this." 

"But  you  do  like  me  a  little,  haven't  you  said  so?" 

Her  frown  deepened. 

"Yes,  I  do  like  you  —  a  little." 

"Then  I'll  keep  on  hoping,  anyhow." 

Her  smile  came  back,  but  this  time  it  had  grown 
mocking. 

"No,  you  mustn't  hope,"  she  answered,  "at  least," 
she  corrected  provokingly,  "you  mustn't  hope  — 
too  hard." 

"I'll  hope  as  hard  as  the  devil,  darling  —  and, 
Molly,  if  you  marry  me,  you  know,  you  won't  have 
to  live  with  my  mother." 

"I  like  that, even  though  I'm  not  going  to  marry 
you." 

"Come  here,"  he  drew  her  toward  the  door,  "and 
I'll  show  you  where  our  house  will  stand.  Do  you 
see  that  green  rise  of  ground  over  the  meadow?" 

"Yes,  I  see  it,"  her  tone  was  gentler. 

"I've  chosen  that  site  for  a  home,"  he  went  on, 
"and  I'm  saving  a  good  strip  of  pine  —  you  can  see 
it  over  there  against  the  horizon.  I've  half  a  mind 
to  take  down  my  axe  and  cut  down  the  biggest  of 
the  trees  this  afternoon!" 

If  his  ardour  touched  her  there  was  no  sign  of  it 
in  the  movement  with  which  she  withdrew  herself 
from  his  grasp. 

"You'd  better  finish  your  grinding.  There  isn't 
the  least  bit  of  a  hurry,"  she  returned  with  a 
smile. 


€6  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

"If  you'll  go  with  me,  Molly,  you  may  take  your 
choice  and  I'll  cut  the  tree  down  for  you." 

"But  I  can't,  Abel,  because  I've  promised  Mr. 
Mullen  to  visit  his  mother." 

The  glow  faded  from  his  eyes  and  a  look  like  that 
of  an  animal  under  the  lash  took  its  place. 

"Come  with  me,  not  with  him,  Molly,  you  owe  me 
that  much,"  he  entreated. 

"But  he's  such  a  good  man,  and  he  preaches  such 
beautiful  sermons." 

"He  does  —  I  know  he  does,  but  I  love  you  a  thou 
sand  times  better." 

"Oh,  he  loves  me  because  I  am  pretty  and  hard 
t©  win  —  just  as  you  do,"  she  retorted.  "If  I  lost  my 
hair  or  my  teeth  how  many  of  you,  do  you  think, 
would  care  for  me  to-morrow?" 

"I  should  —  before  God  I'd  love  you  just  as  I  do 
now,"  he  answered  with  passion. 

A  half  mocking,  half  tender  sound  broke  from  her 
lips. 

"Then  why  don't  you  —  every  one  of  you,  fall 
head  over  ears  in  love  with  Judy  Hatch?"  she  in 
quired. 

"I  don't  because  I  loved  you  first,  and  I  can't 
change,  however  badly  you  treat  me.  I'm  sometimes 
tempted  to  think,  Molly,  that  mother  is  right,  and  you 
are  possessed  of  a  devil." 

"Your  mother  is  a  hard  woman,  and  I  pity  the  wife 
you  bring  home  to  her." 

The  softness  had  gone  out  of  her  voice  at  the  men 
tion  of  Sarah's  name,  and  she  had  grown  defiant  and 
reckless. 

"I  don't  think  you  are  just  to  my  mother,  Molly," 


THE  MILL  67 

he  said  after  a  moment,  "she  has  a  kind  heart  at 
bottom,  and  when  she  nags  at  you  it  is  most  often 
for  your  good." 

"I  suppose  it  was  for  my  mother's  good  that  she 
kept  her  from  going  to  church  and  made  the  old  min 
ister  preach  a  sermon  against  her?" 

"That's  an  old  story  —  you  were  only  a  month 
old.  Can't  you  forget  it?" 

"I'll  never  forget  it  —  not  even  at  the  Day  of  Judg 
ment.  I  don't  care  how  I'm  punished." 

Her  violence,  which  seemed  to  him  sinful  and  un 
reasonable,  reduced  him  to  a  silence  that  goaded  her 
to  a  further  expression  of  anger.  While  she  spoke 
he  watched  her  eyes  shine  green  in  the  sunlight,  and 
he  told  himself  that  despite  her  passionate  loyalty 
to  her  mother,  the  blood  of  the  Gays  ran  thicker  in 
her  veins  than  that  of  the  Merry  weathers.  Her 
impulsiveness,  her  pride,  her  lack  of  self-control,  all 
these  marked  her  kinship  not  to  Reuben  Merryweather, 
but  to  Jonathan  Gay.  The  qualities  against  which 
she  rebelled  cried  aloud  in  her  rebellion.  The  in 
heritance  she  abhorred  endowed  her  with  the  capacity 
for  that  abhorrence.  While  she  accused  the  Gays, 
she  stood  revealed  a  Gay  in  every  tone,  in  every  phrase, 
in  every  gesture. 

"It  isn't  you,  Molly,  that  speaks  like  that,"  he  said, 
"it's  something  in  you."  She  had  tried  his  patience 
almost  to  breaking,  yet  in  the  very  strain  and  suffering 
she  put  upon  him,  she  had,  all  unconsciously  to  them 
both,  strengthened  the  bond  by  which  she  held  him. 

"If  I'd  known  you  were  going  to  preach,  I 
shouldn't  have  stopped  to  speak  to  you,"  she  rejoined 
coldly.  "I'd  rather 'hear  Mr.  Mullen." 


68  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

He  stood  the  attack  without  flinching,  his  hazel 
eyes  full  of  an  angry  light  and  the  sunburnt  colour  in 
his  face  paling  a  little.  Then  when  she  had  finished, 
he  turned  slowly  away  and  began  tightening  the  feed 
strap  of  the  mill. 

For  a  minute  Molly  paused  on  the  threshold  in  the 
band  of  sunlight.  "For  God's  sake  speak,  Abel," 
she  said  at  last,  "what  pleasure  do  you  think  I  find 
in  being  spiteful  when  you  won't  strike  back?" 

"I'll  never  strike  back;  you  may  keep  up  your 
tirading  forever." 

"I  wouldn't  have  said  it  if  I'd  known  you'd  take 
It  so  quietly." 

"Quietly?  Did  you  expect  me  to  pick  you  up  and 
throw  you  into  the  hopper?" 

"I  shouldn't  have  cared  —  it  would  have  been 
better  than  your  expression  at  this  minute.  It's  all 
your  fault  anyway,  for  not  falling  in  love  with  Judy 
Hatch,  as  I  told  you  to." 

"Don't  worry.  Perhaps  I  shall  in  the  end.  Your 
tantrums  would  wear  the  patience  of  a  Job  out  at 
last.  It  seems  that  you  can't  help  despising  a  man 
just  as  soon  as  he  happens  to  love  you." 

"I  wonder  if  that's  true?"  she  said  a  little  sadly, 
turning  away  from  him  until  her  eyes  rested  on  the 
green  rise  of  ground  over  the  meadow,  "I've  seen  men 
like  that  as  soon  as  they  were  sure  of  their  wives,  and 
I've  hated  them  for  it." 

"What  I  can't  understand,"  he  pursued,  not  with 
out  bitterness,  "is  why  in  thunder  a  man  or  a  woman 
who  isn't  married  should  put  up  with  it  for  an  instant?" 

At  his  words  she  left  the  door  and  came  slowly 
back  to  his  side,  where  he  bent  over  the  meal  trough. 


THE  MILL  6£ 

"The  truth  is  that  I  like  you  better  than  anyone 
in  the  world,  except  grandfather,"  she  said,  "but 
I  hate  love-making.  When  I  see  that  look  in  a 
man's  face  and  feel  the  touch  of  his  hands  upon  me  I 
want  to  strike  out  and  kill.  My  mother  was  that 
way  before  I  was  born,  and  I  drank  it  in  with  her 
milk,  I  suppose." 

"I  know  it  isn't  your  fault,  Molly,  and  yet,  and 
yet-" 

She  sighed,  half  pitying  his  suffering,  half  impatient 
of  his  obtuseness.  As  he  turned  away,  her  gaze  rested 
on  his  sunburnt  neck,  rising  from  the  collar  of  his 
blue  flannel  shirt,  and  she  saw  that  his  hair  ended 
in  'a  short,  boyish  ripple  that  was  powdered  with 
mill-dust.  A  sudden  tenderness  for  him  as  for  a  child 
or  an  animal  pierced  her  like  a  knife. 

"I  shouldn't  mind  your  kissing  me  just  once,  if 
you'd  like  to,  Abel,"  she  said. 

A  little  later,  when  he  had  helped  her  over  the  stile 
and  she  was  returning  home  through  the  cornlands, 
she  asked  herself  with  passionate  self-reproach  why 
she  had  yielded  to  pity?  She  had  felt  sorry  for  Abel, 
and  because  she  had  felt  sorry  she  had  allowed  him 
to  kiss  her.  "Only  I  meant  him  to  do  it  gently  and 
soberly,"  she  thought,  "and  he  was  so  rough  and 
fierce  that  he  frightened  me.  I  suppose  most  girls 
like  that  kind  of  thing,  but  I  don't,  and  I  shan't,  if  I 
live  to  be  a  hundred.  I've  got  no  belief  in  it  —  I've 
got  no  belief  in  anything,  that  is  the  trouble.  I'm 
twisted  but  of  shape,  like  the  crooked  sycamore  by 
the  mill-race." 

A  sigh  passed  her  lips,  and,  as  if  in  answer  to  the 
sound,  there  came  the  rumble  of  approaching  wheels 


70  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

in  the  turnpike.  As  she  climbed  the  low  rail  fence 
which  divided  the  corn-lands  from  the  highway,  she 
met  the  old  family  carriage  from  Jordan's  Journey 
returning  with  the  two  ladies  on  the  rear  seat.  The 
younger,  a  still  pretty  woman  of  fifty  years,  with 
shining  violet  eyes  that  seemed  always  apologizing 
for  their  owner's  physical  weakness,  leaned  out  and 
asked  the  girl,  in  a  tone  of  gentle  patronage,  if  she 
would  ride  with  the  driver? 

"Thank  you,  Mrs.  Gay,  it's  only  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
and  I  don't  mind  the  walk." 

"We've  brought  an  overcoat  —  Kesiah  and  I  — 
a  good  thick  one,  for  your  grandfather.  It  worried 
us  last  winter  that  he  went  so  lightly  clad  during  the 
snowstorms." 

Molly's  face  changed,  and  her  eyes  sparkled  with 
pleasure. 

"Oh,  thank  you,  thank  you!"  she  exclaimed,  losing 
her  manner  of  distant  politeness.  "I've  been  trying 
to  persuade  him  to  buy  one,  but  he  hates  to  spend 
money  on  himself." 

Kesiah,  who  had  leaned  back  during  the  conver 
sation,  with  the  scowling  look  she  wore  when  her 
heart  was  moved,  nodded  grimly  while  she  felt  in 
the  black  travelling  bag  she  carried  for  Mrs.  Gay's 
salts.  She  was  one  of  those  unfortunate  women  of 
a  past  generation,  who,  in  offering  no  allurement  to 
the  masculine  eye,  appeared  to  defeat  the  single  end 
for  which  woman  was  formed.  As  her  very  right 
to  existence  lay  in  her  possible  power  to  attract,  the 
denial  of  that  power  by  nature,  or  the  frustration  of  it 
by  circumstances,  had  deprived  her,  almost  from  the 
cradle,  of  her  only  authoritative  reason  for  being. 


THE  MILL  71 

Her  small,  short-sighted  eyes,  below  a  false  front  which 
revealed  rather  than  obscured  her  bare  temples,  flitted 
from  object  to  object  as  though  in  the  vain  pursuit 
of  some  outside  justification  of  her  indelicacy  in  having 
permitted  herself  to  be  born. 

"Samson  tells  me  that  my  son  has  come,  Molly, " 
said  Mrs.  Gay,  in  a  flutter  of  emotion.  "Have  you 
had  a  glimpse  of  him  yet?" 

The  girl  nodded.  "He  took  supper  at  our  house 
the  night  he  got  here." 

"It  was  such  a  surprise.     Was  he  looking  well?" 

"Very  well,  I  thought,  but  it  was  the  first  time  I 
had  seen  him,  you  know." 

"Ah,  I  forgot.  Are  you  sure  you  won't  get  inr 
child?  Well,  drive  on,  Samson,  and  be  very  careful 
of  that  bird  cage." 

Samson  drove  on  at  the  command,  and  Molly,  plod 
ding  obstinately  after  the  carriage,  was  enveloped 
shortly  in  the  cloud  of  dust  that  floated  after  the 
wheels. 


CHAPTER  VI 

TREATS  OF  THE    LADIES*   SPHERE 

As  THE  carriage  rolled  up  the  drive,  there  was  a 
flutter  of  servants  between  the  white  columns,  and 
Abednego,  the  old  butler,  pushed  aside  the  pink-tur- 
baned  maids  and  came  down  to  assist  his  mistress  to 
alight. 

"Take  the  bird  cage,  Abednego,  I've  bought  a  new 
canary,"  said  Mrs.  Gay.  "Here,  hold  my  satchel, 
Nancy,  and  give  Patsey  the  wraps  and  umbrellas." 

She  spoke  in  a  sweet,  helpless  voice,  and  this  help 
lessness  was  expressed  in  every  lovely  line  of  her 
figure.  The  most  casual  observer  would  have  dis 
cerned  that  she  dominated  not  by  force,  but  by  senti 
ment,  that  she  had  surrendered  all  rights  in  order  to 
grasp  more  effectively  at  all  privileges.  She  was 
clinging  and  small  and  delicate,  and  her  eyes,  her 
features,  her  plaintive  gestures,  united  in  an  irresist 
ible  appeal  to  the  emotions. 

"Where  is  Jonathan?"  she  asked,  "I  hoped  he 
would  welcome  me." 

"So  I  do,  dearest  mother  —  so  I  do,"  replied  the 
young  man,  running  hurriedly  down  the  steps  and 
slipping  his  arm  about  her.  "You  came  a  minute  or 
two  earlier  than  I  expected  you,  or  I  should  have  met 
you  in  the  drive. " 

Half  supporting,  half  carrying  her,  he  led  the  way 

72 


TREATS  OF  THE  LADIES'  SPHERE  73 

into  the  house  and  placed  her  on  a  sofa  in  the  long 
drawing-room. 

"  I  am  afraid  the  journey  has  been  too  much  for  you, " 
he  said  tenderly.  "Shall  I  tell  Abednego  to  bring  you 
a  glass  of  wine. " 

"Kesiah  will  mix  me  an  egg  and  a  spoonful  of  sherry, 
dear,  she  knows  just  how  much  is  good  for  me." 

Kesiah,  still  grasping  her  small  black  bag,  went 
into  the  dining-room  and  returned,  bearing  a  beaten 
egg,  which  she  handed  to  her  sister.  In  her  walk 
there  was  the  rigid  austerity  of  a  saint  who  has  adopted 
saintliness  not  from  inclination,  but  from  the  force  of 
a  necessity  against  which  rebellion  has  been  in  vain. 
Her  plain,  prominent  features  wore,  from  habit,  a 
look  of  sullen  martyrdom  that  belied  her  natural 
kindness  of  heart;  and  even  her  false  brown  front  was 
arranged  in  little  hard,  flat  curls,  as  though  an  arti 
ficial  ugliness  were  less  reprehensible  in  her  sight  than 
an  artificial  beauty. 

In  the  midst  of  the  long  room  flooded  with  sun 
shine,  the  little  lady  reclined  on  her  couch  and  sipped 
gently  from  the  glass  Kesiah  had  handed  her.  The 
tapestried  furniture  was  all  in  soft  rose,  a  little  faded 
from  age,  and  above  the  high  white  wainscoting  on 
the  plastered  walls.,  this  same  delicate  colour  was  re 
flected  in  the  rich  brocaded  gowns  in  the  family  por 
traits.  In  the  air  there  was  the  faint  sweet  scent  of 
cedar  logs  that  burned  on  the  old  andirons. 

"So  you  came  all  the  way  home  to  see  your  poor 
useless  mother,"  murmured  Mrs.  Gay,  shielding  her 
cheek  from  the  firelight  with  a  peacock  hand-screen. 

"I  wanted  to  see  for  myself  how  you  stand  it  d^wn 
here  —  and,  by  Jove,  it's  worse  even  than  I  imagined ! 


74  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

How  the  deuce  have  you  managed  to  drag  out  twenty 
years  in  a  wilderness  like  this  among  a  tribe  of  bar 
barians?" 

"It  is  a  great  comfort  to  me,  dear,  to  think  that  I 
came  here  on  your  uncle's  account  and  that  I  am  only 
following  his  wishes  in  making  the  place  my  home.  He 
loved  the  perfect  quiet  and  restfulness  of  it." 

"Quiet!  With  that  population  of  roosters  making 
the  dawn  hideous!  I'd  choose  the  quiet  of  Piccadilly 
before  that  of  a  barnyard. " 

"You  aren't  used  to  country  noises  yet,  and  I 
suppose  at  first  they  are  trying. " 

"Do  you  drive?  Do  you  walk?  How  do  you  amuse 
yourself?" 

"One  doesn't  have  amusement  when  one  is  a  hope 
less  invalid;  one  has  only  medicines.  No,  the  roads 
are  too  heavy  for  driving  except  for  a  month  or  two  in 
the  summer.  I  can't  walk,  of  course,  because  of  my 
heart,  and  as  there  has  been  no  man  on  the  place  for 
ten  years,  I  do  not  feel  that  it  is  safe  for  Kesiah 
to  go  off  the  lawn  by  herself.  Once  she  got  into  quite 
a  dreadful  state  about  her  liver  and  lack  of  exercise  — 
(poor  dear  mother  used  to  say  that  the  difference  be 
tween  the  liver  of  a  lady  and  that  of  another  person, 
was  that  one  required  no  exercise  and  the  other  did)  — 
but  Kesiah,  who  is  the  best  creature  in  the  world, 
is  very  eccentric  in  some  ways,  and  she  imagines  that 
her  health  suffers  when  she  is  kept  in  the  house  for 
several  years.  Once  she  got  into  a  temper  and  walked 
a  mile  or  two  in  the  road,  but  when  she  returned  I  was 
in  such  a  state  of  nervousness  that  she  promised  me 
never  to  leave  the  lawn  again  unless  a  gentleman  was 
with  her. " 


TREATS  OF  THE  LADIES'  SPHERE  75 

"What  an  angel  you  must  be  to  have  suffered 
so  much  and  complained  so  little!"  he  exclaimed 
with  fervour,  kissing  her  hand. 

Her  eyes,  which  reminded  him  of  dying  violets, 
drooped  over  him  above  the  peacock  feathers  she  waved 
gently  before  her. 

"Poor  Kesiah,  it  is  hard  on  her,  too,"  she  observed, 
"and  I  sometimes  think  she  is  unjust  enough  to  blame 
me  in  her  heart. " 

"But  she  doesn't  feel  things  as  you  do,  one  can 
tell  that  to  look  at  her. " 

"She  isn't  so  sensitive  and  silly,  you  dear  boy,  but 
my  poor  nerves  are  responsible  for  that,  you  must 
remember.  If  Kesiah  had  been  a  man  she  would 
have  been  an  artist,  and  it  was  really  a  pity  that  she 
happened  to  be  born  a  woman.  When  she  was  young 
she  had  a  perfect  mania  for  drawing,  and  it  used  to 
distress  mother  so  much.  A  famous  portrait  painter 
—  I  can't  recall  his  name  though  I  am  sure  it  began 
with  S  —  saw  one  of  her  sketches  by  accident  and 
insisted  that  we  ought  to  send  her  to  Paris  to  study. 
Kesiah  was  wild  to  go  at  the  time,  but  of  course  it 
was  out  of  the  question  that  a  Virginia  lady  should  go 
off  by  herself  and  paint  perfectly  nude  people  in  a 
foreign  city.  There  was  a  dreadful  scene,  I  remem 
ber,  and  Kesiah  even  wrote  to  Uncle  William  Bur- 
well  and  asked  him  to  come  down  and  win  mother 
over.  He  came  immediately,  for  he  was  the  kind 
est  soul,  but,  of  course,  after  he  understood,  he  de 
cided  against  it.  Why  on  earth  should  a  girl  want 
to  go  streaking  across  the  water  to  study  art,  he 
asked,  when  she  had  a  home  she  could  stay  in  and 
men  folk  who  could  look  after  her  ?  They  both 


76  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

told  her  she  made  herself  ridiculous  when  she  talked 
of  ambition,  and  as  they  wouldn't  promise  her  a  penny 
to  live  on,  she  was  obliged  in  the  end  to  give  up  the 
idea.  She  nursed  mother  very  faithfully,  I  must  say, 
as  long  as  she  lived,  never  leaving  her  a  minute  night 
or  day  for  the  last  year  of  her  illness.  Don't  mis 
judge  poor  Kesiah,  Jonathan,  she  has  a  good  heart 
at  bottom,  though  she  has  always  been  a  little  soured 
on  account  of  her  disappointment. " 

"Oh,  she  was  cut  out  for  an  old  maid,  one  can  see 
that, "  rejoined  Gay,  only  half  interested  in  the  history 
of  his  aunt,  for  he  seldom  exerted  his  imagination 
except  under  pressure  of  his  desires,  "and,  by  the  way, 
mother,  what  kind  of  man  was  my  Uncle  Jonathan?" 

"The  dearest  creature,  my  son,  heaven  alone  knows 
what  his  loss  meant  to  me!  Such  consideration! 
Such  generosity !  Such  delicacy !  He  and  Kesiah  never 
got  on  well,  and  this  was  the  greatest  distress  to  me. " 

"Did  you  ever  hear  any  queer  stories  about  him? 
Was  he  —  well  —  ah,  wild,  would  you  say?" 

"Wild?  Jonathan,  I  am  surprised  at  you!  Why, 
during  the  twenty  years  that  I  knew  him  he  never  let 
fall  so  much  as  a  single  indelicate  word  in  my  presence. " 

"I  don't  mean  that  exactly  —  but  what  about  his 
relations  with  the  women  around  here?" 

She  flinched  as  if  his  words  had  struck  her  a 
blow. 

"Dear  Jonathan,  your  poor  uncle  would  never 
have  asked  such  a  question. " 

Above  the  mantel  there  was  an  oil  portrait  of  the 
elder  Jonathan  at  the  age  of  three,  painted  astride  the 
back  of  an  animal  that  disported  the  shape  of  a  lion 
under  the  outward  covering  of  a  lamb. 


TREATS  OF  THE  LADIES'  SPHERE          7? 

''Ah,  that's  just  it,"  commented  Gay,  while  his 
inquiring  look  hung  on  the  picture.  After  a  minute 
of  uncertainty,  his  curiosity  triumphed  over  his 
discretion,  and  he  put,  in  an  apologetic  tone,  an 
equally  indelicate  question.  "What  about  old  Reuben 
Merry  weather's  granddaughter?  Has  she  been  pro 
vided  for?" 

For  an  instant  Mrs.  Gay  looked  at  him  with  shining, 
reproachful  eyes  under  a  loosened  curl  of  fair  hair 
which  was  threaded  with  silver.  Those  eyes,  very  blue, 
very  innocent,  seemed  saying  to  him,  "Oh,  be  careful, 
I  am  so  sensitive.  Remember  that  I  am  a  poor  frail 
creature,  and  do  not  hurt  me.  Let  me  remain  still 
in  my  charmed  circle  where  I  have  always  lived,  and 
where  no  unpleasant  reality  has  ever  entered."  The 
quaint  peacock  screen,  brought  from  China  by  old 
Jonathan,  cast  a  shadow  on  her  cheek,  which  was 
flushed  to  the  colour  of  a  faded  rose  leaf. 

"Yes,  the  girl  is  an  orphan,  it  is  very  sad,"  she 
replied,  and  her  tone  added,  "but  what  can  I  do 
about  it?  I  am  a  woman  and  should  know  nothing 
of  such  matters!" 

"Was  she  mentioned  in  my  uncle's  will,  do  you 
remember?" 

His  handsome,  well-coloured  face  had  taken  a  sud 
den  firmness  of  outline,  and  even  the  sagging  flesh  of 
his  chin  appeared  to  harden  with  the  resolve  of  the 
moment.  Across  his  forehead,  under  the  fine  dark 
hair  which  had  worn  thin  on  the  temples,  three  frown 
ing  wrinkles  leaped  out  as  if  in  response  to  some  in 
ward  pressure. 

"There  was  something  —  I  can't  remember  just 
what  it  was  —  Mr.  Chamberlayne  will  tell  you  about 


78  TEtE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

it  when  he  comes  down  to-morrow  to  talk  over  business 
with  Kesiah.  They  keep  all  such  things  away  from 
me  out  of  consideration  for  my  heart.  But  I've 
never  doubted  for  an  instant  that  your  uncle  did 
everything  that  was  just  and  generous  in  the  matter. 
He  sent  the  girl  to  a  good  school  in  Applegate,  I  remem 
ber,  and  there  was  a  bequest  of  some  sort,  I  believe  — 
something  that  she  comes  into  on  her  twenty-first 
birthday." 

"She  isn't  twenty-one  then,  is  she?" 

"I  don't  know,  Jonathan,  I  really  can't  remember." 

"Perhaps  Aunt  Kesiah  can  tell  me  something  about 
her?" 

"Oh,  she  can  and  she  will  —  but  Kesiah  is  so  vio 
lent  in  all  her  opinions!  I  had  to  ask  her  never  to 
mention  Brother  Jonathan's  name  to  me  because 
she  made  me  quite  ill  once  by  some  dreadful  hints  she 
let  fall  about  him." 

She  leaned  back  wearily  as  if  the  conversation  had 
exhausted  her,  while  the  peacock  firescreen  slipped 
from  her  hand  and  dropped  on  the  white  fur  rug  at 
her  feet. 

"If  you'll  call  Kesiah,  Jonathan,  I'll  go  upstairs 
for  a  rest, "  she  said  gently,  yet  with  a  veiled  reproach. 
"The  journey  tired  me,  but  I  forgot  it  in  the  pleasure 
of  seeing  you. " 

All  contrition  at  once,  he  hastily  summoned  Kesiah 
from  the  storeroom,  and  between  them,  with  several 
solicitious  maids  in  attendance,  they  carried  the 
fragile  little  lady  up  to  her  chamber,  where  a  fire  of 
resinous  pine  was  burning  in  the  big  colonial  fireplace. 

An  hour  afterwards,  when  Kesiah  had  seen  her 
sister  peacefully  dozing,  she  went,  for  the  first  time 


TREATS  OF  THE  LADIES5  SPHERE  79 

since  her  return,  into  her  own  bedroom,  and  stood 
looking  down  on  the  hearth,  where  the  servants  had 
forgotten  to  light  the  sticks  that  were  laid  cross-wise 
on  the  andirons.  It  was  the  habit  of  those  about 
her  to  forget  her  existence,  except  when  she  was  needed 
to  render  service,  and  after  more  than  fifty  years 
of  such  omissions,  she  had  ceased,  even  in  her  thoughts, 
to  pass  judgment  upon  them.  In  her  youth  she  had 
rebelled  fiercely  —  rebelled  against  nature,  against 
the  universe,  against  the  fundamental  injustice  that 
divided  her  sister's  lot  from  her  own.  Generations 
of  ancestors  had  bred  in  her  the  belief  that  woman 
existed  only  to  win  love  or  to  bestow  it.  Inheritance, 
training,  temperament,  all  combined  to  develop  the 
racial  instinct  within  her,  yet  something  stronger  than 
these  —  some  external  shaping  of  clay  —  had  unfitted 
her  for  the  purpose  for  which  she  was  designed. 
And  since,  in  the  eyes  of  her  generation,  any  self- 
expression  from  a  woman,  which  was  not  associated 
with  sex,  was  an  affront  to  convention,  that  single 
gift  of  hers  was  doomed  to  wither  away  in  the  hot 
house  air  that  surrounded  her.  A  man  would  have 
struck  for  freedom,  and  have  made  a  career  for  himself 
in  the  open  world,  but  her  nature  was  rooted  deep  in 
the  rich  and  heavy  soil  from  which  she  had  tried  to 
detach  it.  Years  after  her  first  fight,  on  the  day  of 
her  mother's  death,  she  had  suffered  a  brief  revival 
of  youth;  and  then  she  had  pulled  in  vain  at  the 
obstinate  tendrils  that  held  her  to  the  spot  in 
which  she  had  grown.  She  was  no  longer  penniless, 
she  was  no  longer  needed,  but  she  was  crushed.  The 
power  of  revolt  was  the  gift  of  youth.  Middle-age 
could  put  forth  only  a  feeble  and  ineffectual  resistance 


80  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

—  words  without  passion,  acts  without  abandonment. 
At  times  she  still  felt  the  old  burning  sense  of  injustice, 
the  old  resentment  against  life,  but  this  passed  quickly 
now,  and  she  grew  quiet  as  soon  as  her  eyes  fell  on  the 
flat,  spare  figure,  a  little  bent  in  the  chest,  which  her 
mirror  revealed  to  her.  The  period  was  full  of  woman's 
advancement  —  a  peaceful  revolution  had  triumphed 
around  her  —  yet  she  had  taken  no  part  in  it,  and  the 
knowledge  left  her  unmoved.  She  had  read  count 
less  novels  that  acclaimed  hysterically  the  wrongs  of 
her  sex,  but  beneath  the  hysterics  she  had  perceived 
the  fact  that  the  newer  woman  who  grasped  success 
fully  the  right  to  live,  was  as  lavishly  endowed  as  her 
elder  sister  who  had  petitioned  merely  for  the  privi 
lege  to  love.  The  modern  heroine  could  still  charm 
even  after  she  had  ceased  to  desire  to.  Neither  in 
the  new  fiction  nor  in  the  old  was  there  a  place  for  the 
unhappy  woman  who  desired  to  charm  but  could  not; 
she  remained  what  she  had  always  been  —  a  tragic 
perversion  of  nature  which  romance  and  realism  con 
spired  to  ignore.  Women  in  novels  had  revolted 
against  life  as  passionately  as  she  —  but  one  and  all 
they  had  revolted  in  graceful  attitudes  and  with  abun 
dant  braids  of  hair.  A  false  front  not  only  extinguished 
sentiment  —  it  put  an  end  to  rebellion. 

"Miss  Kesiah,  dar's  Marse  Reuben  in  de  hall  en 
he  sez  he'd  be  moughty  glad  ef'n  you'd  step  down  en 
speak  a  wud  wid  'im. " 

"In  a  moment,  Abednego.  I  must  take  off  my 
things." 

Withdrawing  the  short  jet-headed  pins  from  her  bon 
net  with  a  hurried  movement,  she  stabbed  them  into  the 
hard  round  pincushion  on  her  bureau,  and  after  throw- 


TREATS  OF  THE  LADIES'  SPHERE  81 

ing  a  knitted  cape  over  her  shoulders,  went  down  the 
wide  staircase  to  where  Reuben  awaited  her  in  the 
hall.  As  she  walked  she  groped  slightly  and  peered 
ahead  of  her  with  her  nervous,  short-sighted  gaze. 

At  the  foot  of  the  staircase,  the  old  man  was  stand 
ing  in  a  patient  attitude,  resting  upon  his  wooden  leg, 
which  was  slightly  in  advance  of  his  sound  one.  His 
fine  bearded  face  might  have  been  the  face  of  a  scholar, 
except  for  its  roughened  skin  and  the  wistful,  dog- 
like  look  in  the  eyes. 

In  response  to  Kesiah's  greeting,  he  explained  that 
he  had  come  at  once  to  acknowledge  the  gift  of  the 
overcoat  and  to  "pay  his  respects." 

"I  am  glad  you  like  it,"  she  answered,  and  because 
her  heart  was  swelling  with  kindness,  she  stammered 
and  grew  confused  while  the  anxious  frown  deepened 
between  her  eyebrows.  A  morbid  horror  of  making 
herself  ridiculous  prevented  her  always  from  making 
herself  understood. 

"It  will  be  very  useful  to  me,  ma'am,  when  I  am 
out  of  doors  in  bad  weather,"  he  replied,  wondering 
if  he  had  offended  her  by  his  visit. 

"We  got  it  for  that  purpose,"  and  becoming  more 
embarrassed,  she  added  hastily,  "How  is  the  red  cow, 
Mr.  Merry  weather?" 

"She  mends  slowly,  ma'am.  I  am  givin'  her  bran 
mash  twice  a  day  and  keepin'  her  in  the  barn.  Have 
you  noticed  the  hogs?  They're  a  fine  lot  this  year 
and  we'll  get  some  good  hams  at  the  killin'. v 

"No,  I  hadn't  looked  at  them,  but  I've  been  struck 
with  the  corn  you've  brought  up  recently  from  the 
low  grounds." 

For  a  minute  or  two  they  discussed  the  crops,  both 


82  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

painfully  ill  at  ease  and  uncertain  whether  to  keep 
up  the  conversation  or  to  let  it  trail  off  into  silence. 
Then  at  the  first  laboured  pause,  Reuben  repeated 
his  message  to  Mrs.  Gay  and  stamped  slowly  out  of 
the  back  door  into  the  arms  of  Jonathan,  who  was 
about  to  enter. 

"Halloo!  So  it's  you!"  exclaimed  the  young  man  in 
the  genial  tone  which  seemed  at  once  to  dispel  Kesiah's 
embarrassment.  "I've  wanted  to  talk  with  you  for 
two  days,  but  I  shan't  detain  you  now  for  I  happen 
to  know  that  your  granddaughter  is  hunting  for  you 
already.  I'll  come  up  to-morrow  and  chat  awhile  in 
the  barn." 

Reuben  bowed  and  passed  on,  a  little  flattered  by 
the  other's  intimate  tone,  while  Gay  followed  Kesiah 
into  the  drawing-room,  and  put  a  question  to  her 
which  had  perplexed  him  since  the  night  of  his 
arrival. 

"Aunt  Kesiah,  was  old  Reuben  Merry  weather  on 
friendly  terms  with  my  uncle?" 

She  started  and  looked  at  him  with  a  nervous 
twitching  of  her  eyelids. 

"I  think  so,  Jonathan,  at  least  they  appeared  to 
be.  Old  Reuben  was  born  on  the  place  when  the  Jor- 
dans  still  lived  here,  and  I  am  sure  your  uncle  felt 
that  it  would  be  unjust  to  remove  him.  Then  they 
fought  through  the  war  together  and  were  both  danger 
ously  wounded  in  the  same  charge. " 

He  gazed  at  her  a  moment  in  silence,  narrowing  his 
intense  blue  eyes  which  were  so  like  the  eyes  of  Reu 
ben's  granddaughter. 

"Did  my  uncle  show  any  particular  interest  in 
the  girl?"  he  inquired,  and  added  a  little  bitterly, 


TREATS  OF  THE  LADIES'  SPHERE          88 

"It's  not  fair  to  me  that  I  shouldn't  know  just  where 
I  am  standing." 

"Yes,  he  did  show  a  particular  interest  in  her  and 
was  anxious  that  she  should  be  educated  above  her 
station.  She  was  even  sent  off  to  a  boarding-school 
in  Applegate,  but  she  ran  away  during  the  middle  of 
the  second  session  and  came  home.  Her  grand 
father  was  ill  with  pneumonia,  and  she  is  sincerely 
devoted  to  him,  I  believe." 

"Was  there  any  mention  of  her  in  Uncle  Jonathan's 
will?" 

"None  whatever.  He  left  instructions  with 
Mr.  Chamberlayne,  however,  which  are  to  be  made 
known  next  April  on  Molly's  twenty-first  birthday. 
It  is  all  rather  mysterious,  but  we  only  know  that 
he  owned  considerable  property  in  the  far  West, 
which  he  left  away  from  us  and  in  trust  to  his  lawyer. 
I  suppose  he  thought  your  mother  would  not  be 
alive  when  the  girl  came  of  age;  for  the  doctors  had 
agreed  that  she  had  only  a  few  years  to  live  at 
the  utmost." 

"What  in  the  devil  did  my  poor  mother  have  to 
do  with  it?" 

She  hesitated  an  instant,  positively  scowling  in  her 
perplexity. 

"Only  that  I  think  —  I  believe  your  Uncle  Jona 
than  would  have  married  the  girl's  mother  —  Janet 
Merryweather  —  but  for  your  mother's  influence. " 

"How  in  the  deuce!  You  mean  he  feared  the 
effect  on  her?" 

"He  broke  it  to  her  once  —  his  intention,  I  mean  — 
and  for  several  days  afterwards  we  quite  despaired 
of  her  life.  It  was  then  that  she  made  him  promise  — 


84  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

he  was  quite  distracted  with  remorse  for  he  adored 
Angela  —  that  he  would  never  allude  to  it  again  while 
she  was  alive.  We  thought  then  that  it  would  be 
only  for  a  short  while,  but  she  has  outlived  him  ten 
years  in  spite  of  her  heart  disease.  One  can  never 
rely  on  doctors,  you  know. " 

"But  what  became  of  the  girl  —  of  Janet  Merry- 
weather,  I  mean?" 

"That  was  the  sad  part,  though  it  happened  so  long 
ago  —  twenty  years  —  that  people  have  almost  forgot 
ten.  It  seems  that  your  uncle  had  been  desperate 
about  her  for  a  time  —  before  Angela  came  to  live 
with  him  —  and  Janet  had  counted  rather  recklessly 
upon  his  keeping  his  word  and  marrying  her  as  he  had 
promised.  When  her  trouble  came  she  went  quite 
out  of  her  mind  —  perfectly  harmless,  I  believe,  and 
with  lucid  intervals  in  which  she  suffered  from  terrible 
melancholia.  Her  child  inherits  many  of  her  char 
acteristics,  I  am  told,  though  I've  never  heard  any 
harm  of  the  girl  except  that  she  flirts  with  all  the 
clowns  in  the  neighbourhood." 

"Uncle  Jonathan  appears  to  have  been  too  ready 
with  his  promises,  but,  I  suppose,  he  thought  there 
was  a  difference  between  his  obligation  to  Janet  Merry- 
weather  and  to  his  brother's  widow?" 

"There  was  a  difference,  of  course.  Janet  Merry- 
weather  could  hardly  have  had  Angela's  sensitive  feel 
ings  —  or  at  least  it's  a  comfort  to  think  that,  even 
if  it  happens  not  to  be  true.  Before  the  war  one 
hardly  ever  heard  of  that  class,  mother  used  to  say, 
it  was  so  humble  and  unpresuming  —  but  in  the  last 
twenty -five  or  thirty  years  it  has  overrun  everything 
and  most  of  the  land  about  here  has  passed  into  its 
possession. " 


TREATS  OF  THE  LADIES'  SPHERE  85 

She  checked  herself  breathlessly,  surprised  and  in 
dignant  that  she  should  have  expressed  her  feelings  so 
openly. 

"Yes,  I  dare  say,"  returned  Jonathan  —  "The 
miller  Revercomb  is  a  good  example,  I  imagine,  of  just 
the  thing  you  are  speaking  of  —  a  kind  of  new  plant 
that  has  sprung  up  like  fire-weed  out  of  the  ashes. 
Less  than  half  a  century  produced  him,  but  he's 
here  to  stay,  of  that  I  am  positive.  After  all,  why 
shouldn't  he,  when  we  get  down  to  the  question? 
He  —  or  the  stock  he  represents,  of  course  —  is  al 
ready  getting  hold  of  the  soil  and  his  descendants  will 
run  the  State  financially  as  well  as  politically,  I  suppose. 
We  can't  hold  on,  the  rest  of  us  —  we're  losing  grip  - 
and  in  the  end  it  will  be  pure  pluck  that  counts  wher 
ever  it  comes  from. " 

"Ah,  it's  just  that  —  pluck  —  but  put  the  miller 
in  the  crucible  and  you'll  find  how  little  pure  gold 
there  is  to  him.  It  is  not  in  prosperity,  but  in  poverty 
that  the  qualities  of  race  come  to  the  surface,  and  this 
remarkable  miller  of  yours  would  probably  be  crushed 
by  a  weight  to  which  poor  little  Mrs.  Bland  at  the 
post-office  —  she  was  one  of  the  real  Carters,  you 
know  —  would  hardly  bend  her  head. " 

"Perhaps  you're  right,"  he  answered,  and  laughed 
shortly  under  his  breath,  "but  in  that  case  how  would 
you  fix  the  racial  characteristics  of  that  little  fire 
brand,  Molly  Merry  weather?" 


CHAPTER  VII 

GAY  RUSHES  INTO  A  QUARREL  AND  SECURES  A  KISS 

AT  DAWN  next  morning  Jonathan  Gay,  who  had 
spent  a  restless  night  in  his  uncle's  old  room,  came  out 
into  the  circular  drive  with  his  gun  on  his  shoulder, 
and  strolled  in  the  direction  of  the  meadows  beyond 
the  haunted  Poplar  Spring  at  the  end  of  the  lawn. 
It  was  a  rimy  October  morning,  and  the  sun  rising 
slowly  above  the  shadowy  aspens  in  the  grave 
yard,  shone  dimly  through  the  transparent  silver 
veil  that  hung  over  the  landscape.  The  leaves,  still 
russet  and  veined  with  purple  on  the  boughs  overhead, 
lay  in  brown  wind-rifts  along  the  drive,  where  they 
had  been  blown  during  the  night  before  the  changeful 
weather  had  settled  into  a  frosty  stillness  at  daybreak. 

"By  Jove,  it's  these  confounded  acorns  that  keep 
me  awake,"  thought  Gay,  with  a  nervous  irritation 
which  was  characteristic  of  him  when  he  had  been 
disturbed.  "A  dozen  ghosts  couldn't  have  managed 
to  make  themselves  more  of  a  nuisance." 

Being  an  emotional  person  in  a  spasmodic  and 
egotistical  fashion,  he  found  himself  thinking  presently 
of  Janet  Merry  weather,  as  he  had  thought  more  than 
once  during  the  wakeful  hours  of  the  night.  He 
felt,  somehow,  that  she  had  been  treated  detestably, 
and  he  was  angry  with  his  uncle  for  having  left  him, 
as  he  described  it,  "in  such  a  deuce  of  a  hole."  "One 

86 


GAY  SECURES  A  KISS  87 

can't  acknowledge  the  girl,  I  suppose,  though,  for  the 
matter  of  that  those  tell-tale  eyes  of  hers  are  not  only 
an  acknowledgment, but  a  condemnation." 

With  a  low  whistle,  he  brought  his  gun  quickly 
down  from  his  shoulder  as  a  partridge,  rising  with  a 
gentle  whir  from  the  red-topped  orchard  grass  in  front 
of  him,  skimmed  lightly  into  the  golden  pathway  the 
sun  made  through  the  mist.  At  the  same  instant  a  shot 
rang  out  close  beside  him,  and  the  bird  dropped  at 
his  feet  while  Archie  Revercomb  sauntered  slowly 
across  the  pasture.  A  string  of  partridges  and  several 
rabbits  hung  from  his  shoulder,  and  at  his  heels  a  pack 
of  fox-hounds  followed  with  muzzles  held  close  to  the 
moist  ground. 

For  a  minute  Gay's  angry  astonishment  kept  him 
rooted  to  the  spot.  Accustomed  to  the  rigid  game 
laws  of  England,  and  ignorant  of  the  habits  of  the 
country  into  which  he  had  come,  he  saw  in  the  act, 
not  the  ancient  Virginian  acceptance  of  the  bird  as 
the  right  of  the  hunter,  but  a  lawless  infringement  of 
his  newly  acquired  sense  of  possession. 

"You  confounded  rogue!"  he  exclaimed  hotly, 
"so  you're  not  only  shooting  my  partridges,  but  you're 
actually  shooting  them  before  my  eyes." 

"What's  that?"  asked  Archie,  only  half  under 
standing  the  words,  "were  you  after  that  bird  yourself, 
then?" 

"WTell,  rather,  my  friend,  and  I'll  trouble  you  at  the 
same  time  to  hand  over  that  string  on  your  shoulder." 

"Hand  them  over?  Well,  I  like  that!  Why,  I 
shot  them." 

"But  you  shot  them  on  my  land,  didn't  you?" 

"What  in  the  devil  do  you  mean  by  that?     My 


88  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

folks  have  shot  over  these  fields  before  yours  were  ever 
heard  of  about  here.  A  bird  doesn't  happen  to  be  yours, 
I  reckon,  just  because  it  takes  a  notion  to  fly  over  your 
pasture." 

"Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  you  don't  respect  a 
man's  right  to  his  game?" 

"A  man's  game  is  the  bird  in  the  bag,  not  in  the 
air,  I  reckon.  This  land  was  open  hunting  in  the  time 
of  the  Jordans,  and  we're  not  going  to  keep  off  of  it 
at  the  first  bid  of  any  Tom-fool  that  thinks  he's  got 
a  better  right  to  it." 

The  assumption  of  justice  angered  Gay  far  more  than 
the  original  poaching  had  done.  To  be  flouted  in  his 
own  pasture  on  the  subject  of  his  own  game  by  a  hand 
some  barbarian,  whom  he  had  caught  red-handed  in 
the  act  of  stealing,  would  have  appealed  irresistibly 
to  his  sense  of  humour,  if  it  had  not  enraged  him. 

"All  the  same  I  give  you  fair  warning,"  he  retorted, 
"that  the  next  time  I  find  you  trespassing  on  my  land, 
I'll  have  the  law  after  you." 

"The  law  —  bosh!  Do  you  think  I'm  afraid  of 
it?" 

Somewhere  at  the  back  of  Gay's  brain,  a  curtain  was 
drawn,  and  he  saw  as  clearly  as  if  it  were  painted  in 
water  colour,  an  English  landscape  and  a  poacher,  who 
had  been  caught  with  a  stolen  rabbit,  humbly  pulling 
the  scant  locks  on  his  forehead.  Well,  this  was  one 
of  the  joys  of  democracy,  doubtless,  and  he  was  in  for 
the  rest  of  them.  These  people  had  got  the  upper 
hand  certainly,  as  Aunt  Kesiah  had  complained. 

"If  you  think  I'll  tamely  submit  to  open  robbery 
by  such  insolent  rascals  as  you,  you're  mistaken, 
young  man,"  he  returned. 


GAY  SECURES  A  KISS  89 

The  next  instant  he  sprang  aside  and  knocked  up 
Archie's  gun,  which  had  been  levelled  at  him.  The 
boy's  face  was  white  under  his  sunburn,  and  the 
feathers  on  the  partridges  that  hung  from  his  shoulder 
trembled  as  though  a  strong  wind  were  blowing. 

" Rascal,  indeed!"  he  stammered,  and  spat  on  the 
ground  after  his  words  in  the  effort  to  get  rid  of  the 
taste  of  them,  "as  if  the  whole  county  doesn't  know 
that  you're  another  blackguard  like  your  uncle  before 
you.  Ask  any  decent  woman  in  the  neighbourhood 
if  she  would  have  been  seen  in  his  company!" 

His  rage  choked  him  suddenly,  and  before  he  could 
speak  again  the  other  struck  him  full  in  the  mouth. 

"Take  that  and  hold  your  tongue,  you  young  savage!" 
said  Gay,  breathing  hard  as  he  drew  back  his  arm. 

Then  as  he  stooped  for  his  gun,  which  he  had  laid 
down,  a  shot  passed  over  his  head  and  whizzed  lightly 
across  the  meadow. 

"The  next  time  I'll  take  better  aim!"  called  Archie, 
turning  away.  "I'll  shoot  as  straight  as  the  man  who 
gave  your  uncle  his  deserts  down  at  Poplar  Spring!" 

Whistling  to  his  dogs,  he  ran  on  for  a  short  distance; 
then  vaulting  the  rail  fence,  he  disappeared  into  the 
tangle  of  willows  beside  the  stream  which  flowed  down 
from  the  mill. 

While  he  watched  him  the  anger  in  Gay's  face  faded 
slowly  into  disgust. 

"Now  I've  stirred  up  a  hornet's  nest,"  he  thought, 
annoyed  by  his  impetuosity.  "Who,  I  wonder,  was 
the  fellow,  and  what  a  fool  —  what  a  tremendous 
fool  I  have  been!" 

With  his  love  of  ease,  of  comfort,  of  popularity, 
the  situation  appeared  to  him  to  be  almost  intolerable. 


90  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

The  whole  swarm  would  be  at  his  head  now,  he  sup 
posed;  for  instead  of  silencing  the  angry  buzzing 
around  his  uncle's  memory,  he  had  probably  raised  a 
tumult  which  would  deafen  his  own  ears  before  it 
was  over.  Here,  as  in  other  hours  and  scenes,  his 
resolve  had  acted  less  as  a  restraint  than  as  a  spur 
which  had  impelled  him  to  the  opposite  extreme  of 
conduct. 

Still  rebuking  his  impulsiveness,  he  shouldered  his 
gun  again,  and  followed  slowly  in  the  direction  Archie 
had  taken.  The  half  bared  willows  by  the  brook 
distilled  sparkling  drops  as  the  small  red  sun  rose 
higher  over  the  meadows,  and  it  was  against  the 
shimmering  background  of  foliage,  that  the  figure  of 
Blossom  Revercomb  appeared  suddenly  out  of  the 
mist.  Her  scant  skirts  were  lifted  from  the  cobwebs 
on  the  grass,  and  her  mouth  was  parted  while  she 
called  softly  after  a  cow  that  had  strayed  down  to 
the  willows. 

"You,  sir!"  she  exclaimed,  and  blushed  enchantingly 
under  the  pearly  dew  that  covered  her  face.  "One  of 
our  cows  broke  pasture  in  the  night  and  we  think  she 
must  have  crossed  the  creek  and  got  over  on  your  side 
of  the  meadow.  She's  a  wonderful  jumper.  We'll 
have  to  be  hobbling  her  soon,  I  reckon." 

"Do  you  milk?"  he  asked,  charmed  by  the  mental 
picture  of  so  noble  a  dairymaid. 

"Except  when  grandma  is  well  enough.  You  can't 
leave  it  to  the  darkies  because  they  are  such  terrible 
slatterns.  Put  a  cow  in  their  hands  and  she's  sure 
to  go  dry  before  three  months  are  over." 

She  looked  up  at  him,  while  the  little  brown  iwole 
played  hide  and  seek  with  a  dimple. 


GAY  SECURES  A  KISS  91 

"Have  you  ever  been  told  that  you  are  beautiful, 
Miss  Keren-happuch?"  he  inquired  with  a  laugh. 

Her  pale  eyes,  like  frosted  periwinkles,  dropped 
softly  beneath  his  gaze. 

"How  can  you  think  so,  sir,  when  you  have  seen  so 
many  city  ladies?" 

"I've  seen  many,  but  not  one  so  lovely  as  you  are 
this  morning  with  the  frost  on  your  cheeks." 

"I'm  not  dressed.  I  just  slip  on  any  old  thing  to  go 
milking." 

"It's  not  the  dress,  that  doesn't  matter  —  though 
I  can  imagine  you  in  trailing  purple  velvet  with  a 
trimming  of  sable." 

An  illumination  shone  in  her  face,  as  if  her  soul 
had  suddenly  blossomed. 

"Purple  velvet,  and  what  else  did  you  say,  sir?" 
she  questioned. 

"Sable  —  fur,  you  know,  the  richest,  softest, 
queenliest  fur  there  is." 

"I'd  like  to  see  it,"  she  rejoined. 

"Well,  it  couldn't  improve  you!  —  remember  always 
that  the  fewer  fine  clothes  you  have  on  the  better. 
Tell  me,  Blossom,"  he  added,  touching  her  shoulder, 
"have  you  many  lovers?" 

She  shook  her  head.  "There  are  so  few  about  here 
that  any  woman  would  look  at." 

"I've  been  told  that  there's  an  engaging  young 
rector." 

"Mr.  Mullen  —  well,  so  he  is  —  and  he  preaches 
the  most  beautiful  sermons.  But  he  fancies  Molly 
Merryweather,  they  say,  like  all  the  others,  though  he 
won't  be  likely  to  marry  anybody  from  around  here, 
I  suppose." 


9S  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

Her  drawling  Southern  tongue  lent  a  charm,  he 
felt,  to  her  naive  disclosures. 

"Like  all  the  others?"  he  repeated  smiling.  "Do 
you  mean  to  tell  me  that  Reuben's  piquant  little 
granddaughter  is  a  greater  belle  in  the  neighbourhood 
than  you  are?" 

"She  has  a  way  with  them,"  said  Blossom  sweetly. 
*  *I  don't  know  what  it  is  and  I  am  sure  she  is  a  good, 
kind  girl  —  but  I  sometimes  think  men  like  her  be 
cause  she  is  so  contrary.  My  Uncle  Abel  has  almost 
lost  his  head  about  her,  yet  she  plays  fast  and  loose 
with  him  in  the  cruelest  fashion." 

"Oh,  well,  she'll  burn  her  fingers  some  day,  at  her 
own  fire,  and  then  she'll  be  sorry." 

"I  don't  want  her  to  be  sorry,  but  I  do  wish  she'd 
try  just  a  little  to  be  kind  —  one  day  she  promises  to 
marry  Abel  and  the  next  you'd  think  she'd  taken  a 
liking  to  Jim  Halloween." 

"Perhaps  she  has  a  secret  sentiment  for  the  rector?" 
he  suggested,  to  pique  her. 

"But  I  don't  believe  he  will  marry  anybody  around 
here,"  she  insisted,  while  the  colour  flooded  her  face. 

The  discovery  that  she  had  once  cherished  —  that 
she  still  cherished,  perhaps,  a  regard  for  the  young 
clergyman,  added  a  zest  to  the  adventure,  while  it 
freed  his  passion  from  the  single  restraint  of  which  he 
had  been  aware.  It  was  not  in  his  nature  to  encourage 
a  chivalrous  desire  to  protect  a  woman  who  had 
betrayed,  however  innocently,  a  sentiment  for  another 
man.  When  the  Reverend  Mr.  Mullen  inadvertently 
introduced  an  emotional  triangle,  he  had  changed 
the  situation  from  one  of  mere  sentimental  dalliance 
into  direct  pursuit.  By  some  law  of  reflex  action, 


GAY  SECURES  A  KISS  93 

known  only  to  the  male  mind  at  such  instants,  the 
first  sign  that  she  was  not  to  be  won  threw  him  into 
the  mental  attitude  of  the  chase. 

"Are  the  fascinations  of  your  Mr.  Mullen  confined 
to  the  pulpit?"  he  inquired  after  a  moment,  "or  does 
he  wear  them  for  the  benefit  of  the  heterodox  when  he 
walks  abroad?" 

"Oh,  he's  not  my  Mr.  Mullen,  sir,"  she  hastened 
to  explain  though  her  words  trailed  off  into  a  sound 
that  was  suspiciously  like  a  sigh. 

"Molly  Merryweather's  Mr.  Mullen,  then?" 

"I  don't  think  he  cares  for  Molly  —  not  in  that 
way." 

"Are  you  quite  as  sure  that  Molly  doesn't  care  for 
him  in  that  way?" 

"She  couldn't  or  she  wouldn't  be  so  cruel.  Then 
she  never  goes  to  lectures  or  Bible  classes  or  mission 
societies.  She  is  the  only  girl  in  the  congregation 
who  never  makes  him  anything  to  wear.  Don't  you 
think,"  she  asked  anxiously,  "that  if  she  really  cared 
about  him  she  would  have  done  some  of  these  things?" 

"From  my  observation  of  ladies  and  clergymen," 
replied  Gay  seriously,  "I  should  think  that  she  would 
most  likely  have  done  all  of  them." 

She  appeared  relieved,  he  thought,  by  the  warmth 
of  his  protestation.  Actually  Mr.  Mullen  had  con 
tributed  a  decided  piquancy  to  the  episode. 

"I'm  afraid,  Blossom,"  he  said  after  a  moment, 
"that  I  am  beginning  to  be  a  little  jealous  of  the 
Reverend  Mullen.  By  the  way,  what  is  the  Christian 
name  of  the  paragon?" 

"Orlando,  sir." 

"Ye  Gods!    The  horror  grows!    Describe  him  to 


94  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

me,  but  paint  him  mildly  if  you  wish  me  to  sur 
vive  it." 

For  a  minute  she  thought  very  hard,  as  though 
patiently  striving  to  invoke  a  mental  image. 

"He's  a  little  taller  than  you,  but  not  quite  —  not 
quite  so  broad." 

"Thank  you,  you  have  put  it  mildly." 

"He  has  the  most  beautiful  curly  hair  —  real 
chestnut  —  that  grows  in  two  peaks  high  on  his  fore 
head.  His  eyes  are  grey  and  his  mouth  is  small,  with 
the  most  perfect  teeth.  He  doesn't  wear  any  mous 
tache,  you  see,  to  hide  them,  and  they  flash  a  great 
deal  when  he  preaches " 

"Hold  on!" 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  sir." 

"I  mean  that  I  am  overcome.  I  am  mentally 
prostrated  before  such  perfections.  Blossom,  you  are 
in  love  with  him." 

"Oh,  no,  sir;  but  I  do  like  to  watch  him  in  the 
pulpit.  He  gesticulates  so  beautifully." 

"And  now  —  speak  truth  and  spare  not  —  how  do 
I  compare  with  him?" 

"Oh,  Mr.  Jonathan,  you  are  so  different!" 

"Do  you  imply  that  I  am  ugly, Blossom?" 

"Why,  no  —  not  ugly.     Indeed  I  didn't  mean  that." 

"But  I'm  not  so  handsome  as  the  Reverend  Orlando? 
—  now,  confess  it." 

She  blushed,  and  he  thought  her  confusion  the  most 
charming  he  had  ever  seen. 

"Well,  perhaps  you  aren't  quite  so  —  so  handsome; 
but  there's  something  about  you,  sir,"  she  added 
eagerly,  "that  reminds  me  of  him." 

"By  Jove!     You  don't  mean  it!" 


GAY  SECURES  A  KISS  95 

"I  can't  tell  just  what  it  is,  but  it  is  something. 
You  both  look  as  though  you'd  lived  in  a  city  and  had 
learned  to  wear  your  Sunday  clothes  without  re 
membering  that  they  are  your  Sunday  clothes.  Of 
course,  your  hair  doesn't  curl  like  his,"  she  added 
honestly,  "and  I  doubt  if  you'd  look  nearly  so  well 
in  the  pulpit." 

"I'm  very  sure  I  shouldn't,  but  Blossom " 

"What,  Mr.  Jonathan?" 

"Do  you  think  you  will  ever  like  me  as  well  as  you 
like  Mr.  Mullen?" 

His  gay  and  intimate  smile  awaited  her  answer,  and 
in  the  pause,  he  stretched  out  his  hand  and  laid  it  on 
her  large  round  arm  a  little  above  the  elbow.  The  flush 
deepened  in  her  face,  and  he  felt  a  slight  trembling 
under  his  fingers  like  the  breast  of  a  frightened  bird. 

"Blossom,"  he  repeated,  half  mocking,  half  tender, 
"do  you  think  you  will  ever  like  me  better  than  you 
like  Mr.  Mullen?" 

At  this  her  rustic  pride  came  suddenly  between 
them,  and  withdrawing  her  arm  from  his  clasp,  she 
stepped  out  of  the  bridle  path  into  the  wet  orchard 
grass  that  surrounded  them. 

"I've  known  him  so  much  longer,"  she  replied. 

"And  if  you  know  me  longer  will  you  like  me  better, 
Blossom?" 

Then  as  she  still  drew  back,  he  pressed  nearer,  and 
spoke  her  name  again  in  a  whisper. 

"Blossom  —  Blossom,  are  you  afraid  of  me?  Do 
you  think  I  would  hurt  you?" 

The  gentleness  in  his  voice  stayed  her  flight  for  an 
instant,  and  in  that  instant,  as  she  looked  up  at  him, 
he  stooped  quickly  and  kissed  her  mouth. 


96  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

"What  a  damned  ass  I've  made  of  myself,"  he 
thought  savagely,  when  she  broke  from  him  and  fled 
over  the  mill  brook  into  the  Revercombs'  pasture 
beyond.  She  did  not  look  back,  but  sped  as  straight 
as  a  frightened  hare  to  the  covert ;  and  by  this  brilliant, 
though  unconscious  coquetry,  she  had  wrested  the 
victory  from  him  at  the  moment  when  it  had  appeared 
to  fall  too  easily  into  his  hands. 

"Well,  it's  all  right  now.  I'll  take  better  care  in 
the  future,"  he  thought,  his  self-reproach  extinguished 
by  the  assurance  that,  after  all,  he  had  done  nothing 
that  justified  the  intrusion  of  his  conscience.  "By 
Jove,  she's  a  beauty  —  but  she's  not  my  kind  all  the 
same,"  he  added  as  he  strolled  leisurely  homeward  — 
for  like  many  persons  whose  moral  standard  exceeds 
immeasurably  their  ordinary  rule  of  conduct,  he 
cherished  somewhere  in  an  obscure  corner  of  his  brain 
an  image  of  perfection  closely  related  to  the  type  which 
he  found  least  alluring  in  reality.  Humanly  tolerant 
of  those  masculine  weaknesses  he  shared,  he  had 
erected  mentally  a  pinnacle  of  virtue  upon  which  he 
exacted  that  a  frailer  being  should  maintain  an 
equilibrium.  A  pretty  woman,  it  was  true,  might 
go  at  a  merry  pace  provided  she  was  not  related  to 
him,  but  he  required  that  both  his  mother  and  his 
aunt  should  be  above  suspicion.  In  earlier  days  he 
had  had  several  affairs  of  sentiment  with  ladies  to 
whom  he  declined  to  bow  if  he  happened  to  be  walking 
with  a  member  of  his  family;  and  this  fine  discrimi 
nation  was  characteristic  of  him,  for  it  proved  that 
he  was  capable  of  losing  his  heart  in  a  direction  where 
he  would  refuse  to  lift  his  hat. 

At  the  late  breakfast  to   which  he  returned,   he 


GAY  SECURES  A  KISS  97 

found  Mr.  Chamberlayne,  who  had  ridden  over  from 
Applegate  to  consult  with  Kesiah.  In  appearance 
the  lawyer  belonged  to  what  is  called  "the  old  school," 
and  his  manner  produced  an  effect  of  ostentation  which 
was  foreign  to  his  character  as  a  Christian  and  a 
gentleman.  His  eyebrows,  which  were  still  dark  and 
thick,  hung  prominently  over  his  small,  sparkling 
eyes  behind  gold  rimmed  spectacles,  while  a  lock  of 
silver  hair  was  brushed  across  his  forehead  with  the 
romantic  wave  which  was  fashionable  in  the  period 
when  Lord  Byron  was  the  favourite  poet.  Kindness 
and  something  more  —  something  that  was  almost 
a  touching  innocence,  looked  from  his  face.  "It  is 
a  good  world  —  I've  always  found  it  to  be  a  good  world, 
and  if  I've  ever  heard  anything  against  it,  I've  refused 
to  believe  it,"  his  look  seemed  to  say. 

All  through  breakfast  he  rambled  on  after  his 
amiable  habit  —  praising  the  food,  praising  the  flowers, 
praising  the  country,  praising  the  universe.  The  only 
creature  or  object  he  omitted  to  praise  was  Kesiah  — 
for  in  his  heart  he  regarded  it  as  an  outrage  on  the  part 
of  Providence  that  a  woman  should  have  been  created 
quite  so  ugly.  While  he  talked  he  kept  his  eyes 
turned  away  from  her,  gazing  abstractedly  through 
the  window  or  at  a  portrait  of  Mrs.  Gay,  painted  in 
the  first  year  of  her  marriage,  which  hung  over  the 
sideboard.  In  the  mental  world  which  he  inhabited  all 
women  were  fair  and  fragile  and  endowed  with  a  qual 
ity  which  he  was  accustomed  to  describe  as  "solace." 
When  occasionally,  as  in  the  case  of  Kesiah,  one  was 
thrust  upon  his  notice,  to  whom  by  no  stretch  of  the 
imagination  these  graces  could  be  attributed,  he  dis 
posed  of  the  situation  by  the  simple  device  of  gazing 


98  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

above  her  head.  In  his  long  and  intimate  acquaint 
ance,  he  had  never  looked  Kesiah  in  the  face,  and  he 
never  intended  to.  He  was  perfectly  aware  that  if 
he  were  for  an  instant  to  forget  himself  so  far  as  to 
contemplate  her  features,  he  should  immediately 
lose  all  patience  with  her.  No  woman,  he  felt,  had 
the  right  to  affront  so  openly  a  man's  ideal  of  what  the 
sex  should  be.  When  he  spoke  of  her  behind  her  back 
it  was  with  indignant  sympathy  as  "poor  Miss  Kesiah," 
or  "that  poor  good  soul  Kesiah  Blount"  —  for  in 
spite  of  a  natural  bent  for  logic,  and  more  than  forty 
years  of  sedulous  attendance  upon  the  law,  he  har 
boured  at  the  bottom  of  his  heart  an  unreasonable 
conviction  that  Kesiah's  plainness  was,  somehow,  the 
result  of  her  not  having  chosen  to  be  pretty. 

"Any  sport,  Jonathan?"  he  inquired  cheerfully, 
while  he  buttered  his  waffles.  "If  I  scared  up  one 
Molly  Cotton-tail  out  of  the  briars  I  did  at  least 
fifty." 

"No,  I  didn't  get  a  shot,"  replied  Gay,  "but  I 
met  a  poacher  on  my  land  who  appeared  to  have  been 
more  successful.  There  seems  to  be  absolutely  no 
respect  for  a  man's  property  rights  in  this  part  of  the 
country.  The  fellow  actually  had  the  impudence  to 
stop  and  bandy  words  with  me." 

"Well,  you  mustn't  be  too  hard  on  him.  His 
ancestors,  doubtless,  shot  over  your  fields  for  genera 
tions,  and  he'd  probably  look  upon  an  attempt  to 
enforce  the  game  laws  as  an  infringement  of  his 
privileges." 

"Do  you  mean  that  the  landowner  is  utterly  un 
protected?" 

"By  no  means  —  go  slow  —  go  slow  —  you  might 


GAY  SECURES  A  KISS  99 

search  the  round  globe,  I  believe  for  a  more  honest 
or  a  more  peaceable  set  of  neighbours.  But  they've 
always  been  taught,  you  see,  to  regard  the  bird  in  the 
air  as  belonging  to  the  man  with  the  gun.  On  these 
large  estates  game  was  so  plentiful  in  the  old  days 
and  pot-hunters,  as  they  call  them,  so  few,  that  it 
didn't  pay  a  man  to  watch  out  for  his  interest.  Now 
that  the  birds  are  getting  scarce,  the  majority  of 
farmers  in  the  State  are  having  their  lands  posted,  but 
your  uncle  was  too  little  of  a  sportsman  to  concern 
himself  in  the  matter." 

"Well,  I  knocked  a  tooth  out  of  the  fellow,  so  the 
whole  county  will  be  after  me  like  a  pack  of  hounds,  I 
suppose.  I  wonder  who  he  was,  by  the  way  —  young, 
good  looking,  rather  a  bully?" 

"The  description  fits  a  Revercomb.  As  they  are 
your  next  neighbours  it  was  probably  the  miller  or 
his  brother." 

"I  know  the  miller,  and  it  wasn't  he  —  but  when  I 
come  to  think  of  it,  the  youngster  had  that  same 
rustic  look  to  him.  By  Jove,  I  am  sorry  it  was  a 
Revercomb,"  he  added  under  his  breath. 

A  frown  had  settled  on  the  face  of  the  old  gentleman, 
and  he  poured  the  syrup  over  his  buckwheat  cakes 
with  the  manner  of  a  man  wrho  is  about  to  argue  a  case 
for  the  defence  when  his  natural  sympathies  are  with 
the  prosecution. 

"They  are  an  irascible  family  from  the  mother 
down,"  he  observed,  "and  I'm  sorry  you've  got  into 
trouble  with  them  so  soon  for  the  miller  is  probably 
the  most  popular  man  in  the  county."  He  paused, 
cleared  his  throat,  and  after  a  tentative  glance  at 
Kesiah,  which  fell  short  of  her  bosom,  decided  to  leave 


100  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

the  sentence  in  his  mind  unspoken  while  they  remained 
in  her  presence. 

A  little  later,  when  the  two  men  were  smoking  in 
the  library,  Gay  brought  the  conversation  back  again 
to  the  point  at  which  the  lawyer  had  so  hastily  dropped 
it. 

"Am  I  likely,  then,  to  have  trouble  with  the  Rev- 
ercombs?"  he  asked,  with  a  disturbing  memory  of 
Blossom's  flaxen  head  under  the  hooded  shawl. 

"It's  not  improbable  that  the  family  will  take  up 
the  matter.  These  country  folk  are  fearful  partisans, 
you  see.  However,  it  may  lead  to  nothing  worse  than 
the  miller's  refusing  to  grind  your  corn  or  forbidding 
you  to  use  the  bridle  path  over  his  pasture." 

"Had  my  uncle  any  friction  in  that  quarter  when  he 
lived  here?" 

Mr.  Chamberlayne's  cigar  had  gone  out  while  he 
talked,  and  striking  a  match  on  a  little  silver  box,  he 
watched  the  thin  blue  flame  abstractedly  an  instant 
before  he  answered. 

"Were  you  ever  told,"  he  inquired,  "that  there 
was  some  talk  of  arresting  Abner  Revercomb  before 
the  coroner's  jury  agreed  on  a  verdict?" 

"Abner?  He's  the  eldest  of  the  brothers,  isn't  he? 
No,  I  hadn't  heard  of  it." 

"It  was  only  the  man's  reputation  for  uprightness, 
I  believe,  that  prevented  the  arrest.  The  Rever- 
combs  are  a  remarkable  family  for  their  station  in 
life,  and  they  derive  their  ability  entirely  from  their 
mother,  who  was  one  of  the  Hawtreys.  They  belong 
to  the  new  order  —  to  the  order  that  is  rapidly  forg 
ing  to  the  surface  and  pushing  us  dilapidated  aristo 
crats  out  of  the  way.  These  people  have  learned  a 


GAY  SECURES  A  KISS:  1Q1. 

lot  in  the  last  few  years,  and  they  are  learning :most?of 
all  that  the  accumulation  of  wealth  is  the  real  secret 
of  dominance.  When  they  get  control  of  the  money, 
they'll  begin  to  strive  after  culture,  and  acquire  a 
smattering  of  education  instead.  It's  astonishing, 
perhaps,  but  the  fact  remains  that  a  reputable,  hard 
working  farmer  like  our  friend  the  miller,  with  his 
primitive  little  last  century  grist-mill,  has  probably 
greater  influence  in  the  State  to-day  than  you  have, 
for  all  your  two  thousand  acres.  He  has  intelligence 
enough  to  go  to  the  legislature  and  make  a  fair  showing, 
if  he  wants  to,  and  I  don't  believe  that  either  of 
us  could  stand  in  the  race  a  minute  against  him." 

"Well,  he's  welcome  to  the  doubtful  honour!  But 
the  thing  that  puzzles  me  is  why  in  thunder  his  brother 
Abner  should  have  wanted  to  shoot  my  uncle?" 

"It  seems — "the  lawyer  hesitated,  coughed  and 
glanced  nervously  at  the  door  as  if  he  feared  the  intru 
sion  of  Kesiah  —  "it  seems  he  was  a  lover  —  was  en 
gaged  in  fact  to  Janet  Merry  weather  before  —  before 
she  attracted  your  uncle's  attention.  Later  the  engage 
ment  was  broken,  and  he  married  a  cousin  in  a  fit 
of  temper,  it  was  said  at  the  time.  There  was  always 
ill  blood  after  this,  it  appeared,  and  on  the  morning 
of  your  uncle's  death  Abner  was  seen  crossing  the 
pasture  from  Poplar  Spring  with  his  gun  on  his 
shoulder." 

"It's  an  ugly  story  all  round,"  remarked  Gay 
quietly,  "and  I  wish  to  heaven  that  I  were  out  of  it. 
How  has  my  poor  mother  stood  it?" 

"She  has  known  very  little  about  it,"  Mr.  Chamber- 
layne  answered,  while  his  jutting  eyebrows  twitched 
nervously  as  he  turned  away.  "Your  mother,  my  dear 


THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

boy;  rs' one  of  those  particularly  angelic  characters  from 
witose  presence  even  the  thought  of  evil  is  banished. 
You  have  only  to  look  into  her  face  to.  discern  how 
pure  and  spotless  she  has  kept  her  soul.  My  old 
friend  Jonathan  was  very  devoted  to  her.  She 
represented,  indeed,  the  spiritual  influence  in  his  life, 
and  there  was  no  one  on  earth  whose  respect  or 
affection  he  valued  so  highly.  It  was  his  considera 
tion  for  her  alone  that  prevented  him  from  making 
a  most  unfortunate  marriage." 

"The  girl  died  insane,  didn't  she?" 

"It  was  a  distressing  —  a  most  distressing  case; 
but  we  must  remember,  in  rendering  our  verdict,  that 
if  Janet  Merryweather  had  upheld  the  principles 
of  her  sex,  it  would  never  have  happened." 

"We'll  rest  it  there,  then  —  but  what  of  her 
daughter?  The  child  could  hardly  have  been  accessory 
before  the  fact,  I  suppose?" 

An  expression  of  suffering  patience  came  into  the 
old  gentleman's  face,  and  he  averted  his  gaze  as  he 
had  done  before  the  looming  countenance  of  Kesiah. 

"Your  uncle  rarely  spoke  to  me  of  her,"  he  answered, 
"but  I  have  reason  to  know  that  her  existence  was  a 
constant  source  of  distress  to  him.  He  was  most 
anxious  both  to  protect  your  mother  and  to  provide 
generously  for  the  future  of  Janet's  daughter." 

"Yet  I  understand  that  there  was  no  mention  of 
her  in  his  will." 

"This  omission  was  entirely  on  your  mother's  ac 
count.  The  considerable  property  —  representing  a 
third  of  his  entire  estate  —  which  was  left  in  trust 
to  me  for  a  secret  purpose,  will  go,  of  course,  to  the 
girl.  In  the  last  ten  years  this  property  has  practically 


GAY  SECURES  A  KISS  103 

doubled  in  value,  and  Molly  will  take  possession  of 
the  income  from  it  when  she  reaches  her  twenty-first 
birthday.  The  one  condition  is  that  at  Reuben's 
death  she  shall  live  with  your  aunt." 

"Ah,"  said  Jonathan,  "I  begin  to  see." 

"At  the  time,  of  course,  he  believed  that  your 
mother  would  survive  him  only  a  few  months,  and  his 
efforts  to  shield  her  from  any  painful  discoveries 
extended  even  after  his  death.  His  wish  was  that  the 
girl  should  be  well  educated  and  prepared  for  any 
change  in  her  circumstances  —  but  unfortunately 
she  has  proved  to  be  rather  a  wilful  young  person,  and 
it  has  been  impossible  entirely  to  fulfil  his  intentions 
with  regard  to  her.  Ah,  he  wasn't  wise  always,  poor 
Jonathan,  but  I  never  doubted  that  he  meant  well 
at  bottom,  however  things  may  have  appeared.  His 
anxiety  in  the  case  of  your  mother  was  very  beautiful, 
and  if  his  plans  seem  to  have  miscarried,  we  must  lay 
the  blame  after  all,  on  the  quality  of  his  judgment,  not 
of  his  heart." 

"And  the  girl  w;U  be  twenty-one  next  April,  I  am 
told?" 

"Her  birthday  is  the  seventeenth,  exactly  ten  years 
from  the  date  of  Jonathan's  death." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

SHOWS    TWO    SIDES    OF    A    QUARREL 

AT  DUSK  that  evening  the  miller,  who  had  spent 
the  day  in  Applegate,  stopped  at  Bottom's  Ordinary 
on  his  way  home,  and  received  a  garbled  account  of 
the  quarrel  from  the  farmers  gathered  about  the 
hospitable  hearth  in  the  public  room.  The  genius 
of  personality  had  enabled  Betsey  Bottom  to  hold 
open  doors  to  the  traveller  long  after  the  wayside 
tavern  in  Virginia  had  passed  from  the  road  and  the 
one  certain  fact  relating  to  the  chance  comer  was 
that  he  never  came.  By  combining  a  store  with  a 
public  house,  she  managed  still  to  defy  the  progress 
of  time  as  well  as  the  absence  of  guests.  "  Thank  the 
Lord,  I've  never  been  one  to  give  in  to  changes!"  it 
was  her  habit  to  exclaim. 

The  room  was  full  of  tobacco  smoke  when  Abel 
entered,  and  as  he  paused,  in  order  to  distinguish  the 
row  of  silhouettes  nodding  against  the  ruddy  square 
of  the  fireplace,  Adam  Doolittle's  quavering  voice 
floated  to  him  from  a  seat  in  the  warmest  corner. 
The  old  man  was  now  turning  ninety,  and  he  had  had, 
on  the  whole,  a  fortunate  life,  though  he  would  have 
indignantly  repudiated  the  idea.  He  was  a  fair  type 
of  the  rustic  of  the  past  generation  —  slow  of  move 
ment,  keen  of  wit,  racy  of  speech. 

"What's    this    here    tale    about     Mr.    Jonathan 

104 


SHOWS  TWO  SIDES  OF  A  QUARREL        105 

knockin'  Archie  down  an'  settin'  on  him,  Abel?"  he 
inquired.  "Ain't  you  got  yo'  hand  in  yet,  seein'  as 
you've  been  spilin'  for  a  fight  for  the  last  fortnight?" 

"I  hadn't  heard  of  it,"  replied  Abel,  his  face  flush 
ing.  "What  in  hell  did  he  knock  Archie  down  for?" 

"Jest  for  shootin'  a  few  birds  —  for  nothin'  on 
earth  but  shootin'  a  few  birds  that  might  as  well  have 
been  flying'  about  on  yo'  land  as  on  his,  if  thar  minds 
had  been  set  over  toward  you." 

"Do  you  mean  that  Mr.  Jonathan  got  into  a 
quarrel  with  him  for  hunting  on  his  land?  Why,  we 
shot  over  those  fields  for  a  hundred  years  before  the 
first  damned  Gay  ever  came  here." 

"So  we  have  —  so  we  have,  but  it  seems  we  ain't 
a-goin'  to  do  so  any  longer  if  Mr.  Jonathan  can  find 
a  way  to  prevent  it.  Archie  was  down  here  jest  a 
minute  or  two  arter  you  went  by  this  mornin',  an'  he 
was  swearin'  like  thunder,  with  a  busted  lip  an'  a 
black  eye." 

A  smarting  sensation  passed  over  Abel,  as  though 
the  change  to  the  warm  room  after  the  cold  outside 
were  stinging  his  flesh. 

"Well,  I  wish  I  had  been  there,"  he  retorted,  "some 
body  else  would  have  been  knocked  down  and  sat  on 
if  that  had  happened." 

"Ah,  so  I  said  —  so  I  said,"  chuckled  old  Adam. 
"Thar  ain't  many  men  with  sech  a  hearty  stomach 
for  trouble,  I  was  jest  savin'  to  Solomon." 

Bending  over  the  fire,  he  lifted  a  live  ember  between 
two  small  sticks,  and  placing  it  in  the  callous  palm 
of  his  hand,  blew  softly  on  it  an  instant  before  he 
lighted  his  pipe. 

"WTiat  goes  against  my  way  of  thinkin',"  remarked 


106  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

Betsey  Bottom,  wiping  a  glass  of  cider  on  her  checked 
apron  before  she  handed  it  to  Abel,  "is  that  so  peace 
able  lookin'  a  gentleman  as  Mr.  Jonathan  should 
begin  to  start  a  fuss  jest  as  soon  as  he  lands  in  the  midst 
of  us.  Them  plump,  soft-eyed  males  is  generally 
inclined  to  mildness  whether  they  be  men  or  cattle." 

*k  'Taint  nothin'  on  earth  but  those  foreign  whims 
he's  brought  back  an'  is  tryin'  to  set  workin' 
down  here,"  said  Solomon  Hatch.  "If  we  don't  get 
our  backs  up  agin  'em  in  time,  we'll  find  presently 
we  don't  even  dare  to  walk  straight  along  the  turnpike 
when  we  see  him  comin'.  A  few  birds,  indeed!  — 
did  anybody  ever  hear  tell  of  sech  doin's?  'Warn't 
them  birds  in  the  air?'  I  ax,  'an'  don't  the  air  belong 
to  Archie  the  same  as  to  him?'" 

"It's  because  he's  rich  an'  we're  po',  that  he's  got 
a  right  to  lay  claim  to  it,"  muttered  William  Ming, 
a  weakly  obstinate  person,  to  whose  character  a  glass 
of  cider  contributed  the  only  strength. 

"You'd  better  hold  yo'  tongue,  suh,"  retorted  his 
wife,  "it  ain't  yo'  air  anyway,  is  it?" 

"I  reckon  it's  as  much  mine  as  it's  Mr.  Jona 
than's,"  rejoined  William,  who,  having  taken  a  double 
portion,  had  waxed  argumentative.  "An'  what  I 
reason  is  that  birds  as  is  in  the  air  ain't  anybody's 
except  the  man's  that  can  bring  'em  down  with  a  gun." 

"That's  mo'  than  you  could  do,"  replied  his  wife, 
"an*  be  that  whether  or  no,  it's  time  you  were 
thinkin'  about  beddin'  the  grey  mule,  an'  she  ain't 
in  the  air,  anyhow.  If  I  was  you,  Abel,"  she  con 
tinued  in  a  softer  tone,  "I  wouldn't  let  'em  make  me 
so  riled  about  Mr.  Jonathan  till  I'd  looked  deep 
in  the  matter.  It  may  be  that  he  ain't  acquainted 


SHOWS  TWO  SIDES  OF  A  QUARREL        107 

with  the  custom  of  the  neighbourhood,  an'  was  actin' 
arter  some  foolish  foreign  laws  he  was  used  to." 

"I'll  give  him  warning  all  the  same,"  said  Abel 
savagely,  "that  if  I  ever  catch  him  on  my  land  I'll 
serve  him  in  the  fashion  that  he  served  Archie." 

"You  don't  lose  nothin'  by  goin'  slow,"  returned 
Solomon.  "Old  Adam  there  is  a  born  fire  eater,  too, 
but  he  knows  how  to  set  back  when  thar's  trouble 
brewin'." 

"I  ain't  never  set  back  mo'  than  was  respectable 
in  a  man  of  ninety,"  croaked  old  Adam  indignantly, 
while  he  prodded  the  ashes  in  his  corncob  pipe  with  his 
stubby  forefinger.  "Tis  my  j'ints,  not  my  sperits 
that  have  grown  feeble." 

"Oh,  we  all  know  that  you  were  a  gay  dog  an'  a 
warain'  to  the  righteous  when  you  were  young,"  re 
joined  Solomon,  in  an  apologetic  manner,  "an*  it 
must  be  a  deal  of  satisfaction  to  be  able  to  look  back 
on  a  sinful  past  when  you've  grown  old  and  repented. 
I've  been  a  pious,  God-fearing  soul  from  my  birth, 
as  you  all  know,  friends,  but  sad  to  relate,  I  ain't 
found  the  solid  comfort  in  a  life  of  virtue  that  I'd 
hoped  for,  an'  that's  the  truth." 

"The  trouble  with  it,  Solomon,"  replied  old  Adam, 
pushing  a  log  back  on  the  andirons  w^ith  his  rough, 
thick  soled  boot  to  which  shreds  of  manure  were 
clinging,  "the  trouble  with  it  is  that  good  or  bad 
porridge,  it  all  leaves  the  same  taste  in  the  mouth 
arter  you've  once  swallowed  it.  I've  had  my  pleasant 
trespasses  in  the  past,  but  when  I  look  backward  on 
'em  now,  to  save  my  life,  I  can't  remember  anything 
about  'em  but  some  small  painful  mishap  that  al'ays 
went  along  with  'em  an'  sp'iled  the  pleasure.  Thar  was 


108  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

the  evening  I  dressed  up  in  my  best  clothes  an'  ran 
off  to  Applegate  to  take  a  yellow  haired  circus  lady, 
in  pink  skirts,  out  to  supper.  It  ought  to  have  been 
a  fine,  glorious  bit  of  wickedness  to  remember,  but 
the  truth  was  that  I'd  put  on  a  new  pair  of  boots, 
an*  one  of  'em  pinched  so  in  the  toes  that  I  couldn't 
think  of  another  thing  the  whole  blessed  evening. 
'Tis  al'ays  that  way  in  my  experience  of  life  —  when 
you  glance  back  or  glance  befo'  'tis  pleasant  enough 
to  the  eye,  but  at  the  moment  while  you're  livin'  it 
thar's  al'ays  the  damn  shoe  that  pinches." 

"Ah,  you're  right,  you're  right,  Mr.  Doolittle," 
remarked  William  Ming,  who  had  lingered  in  the  door 
way  to  follow  the  conversation. 

"It's  life,  that's  what  it  is,"  commented  Solomon, 
heaving  a  sigh  that  burst  a  button  hole  in  his  blue 
shirt.  "An'  what's  mo'  than  life,  it's  marriage.  When 
I  see  the  way  some  men  wear  themselves  out  with 
wantin'  little  specks  of  women,  I  say  to  myself  over 
an'  over  agin, '  Ah,  if  they  only  knew  that  thar  ain't 
nothin'  in  it  except  the  wantin.' ' 

"Not  another  thing  —  not  another  blessed  mite  of 
a  thing,"  agreed  William,  who  had  imbibed  secretly 
again  behind  the  back  of  his  wife. 

"I've  known  a  man  to  throw  himself  into  the  river 
from  sheer  love  befo'  marriage,"  said  Solomon,  "an' 
two  weeks  arter  the  woman  had  taken  him,  to  fall 
out  with  her  because  she'd  put  too  much  shortenin' 
in  his  pie-crust." 

"It's  all  love  befo'  marriage  an'  all  shortenin'  arter- 
wards,"  observed  Betsey  Bottom,  with  scorn.  "I've 
al'ays  noticed  in  this  world  that  the  less  men  folks 
have  to  say  for  themselves  the  better  case  they  make  of 


SHOWS  TWO  SIDES  OF  A  QUARREL        109 

it.  When  they've  spent  all  thar  time  sence  Adam  tryin' 
to  throw  dust  in  the  eyes  of  women,  it  would  be  better 
manners  if  they'd  stop  twittin'  'em  because  they'd 
succeeded." 

"True,  true,  you  never  spoke  a  truer  word,  ma'am, 
in  my  acquaintance  with  you,"  responded  Solomon, 
with  what  hasty  gallantry  he  could  summon.  "I  was 
thinkin'  them  very  things  to  myself  when  you  men 
tioned  'em.  Not  that  anybody  could  throw  dust 
in  yo'  eyes,  even  if  he  tried  to." 

"Well,  it  would  take  mo'n  a  man  to  do  that,  I 
reckon,"  she  replied,  amiably  enough,  "I  saw  through 
'em  early,  an'  when  you've  once  seen  through  'em  it's 
surprisin'  how  soon  the  foolishness  of  men  begins 
to  look  like  any  other  foolishness  on  earth." 

She  was  listened  to  with  respectful  and  flattering 
attention  by  her  guests,  who  leaned  forward  with 
pipes  in  hand  and  vacant,  admiring  eyes  on  her  still 
comely  features.  It  was  a  matter  of  gossip  that  she 
had  refused  half  the  county,  and  that  her  reason  for 
marrying  William  had  been  that  he  wasn't  "set," 
and  would  be  easy  to  manage.  The  event  had  proved 
the  prophecy,  and  to  all  appearance  it  was  a  perfectly 
successful  mating. 

Abel  was  the  first  to  move  under  her  gaze,  and  rising 
from  his  chair  by  the  fire,  he  took  up  his  hat,  and  made 
his  way  slowly  through  the  group,  which  parted 
grudgingly,  and  closed  quickly  together. 

"Take  a  night  to  sleep  on  yo'  temper,  Abel,"  called 
Solomon  after  him,  "and  git  a  good  breakfast  inside 
of  you  befo'  you  start  out  to  do  anything  rash.  Well, 
I  must  be  gittin'  along,  folks,  sad  as  it  seems  to  me. 
It's  strange  to  think,  now  ain't  it  —  that  when  Nannie 


110  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

was  married  to  Tom  Middlesex  an'  livin'  six  miles 
over  yonder  at  Piping  Tree,  I  couldn't  have  got  over 
that  road  too  fast  on  my  way  to  her." 

"You'd  still  feel  like  that,  friend,  if  she  were  still 
married  to  Tom  Middlesex,"  quavered  old  Adam. 
" '  Tis  the  woman  we  oughtn't  to  think  on  that  draws 
us  with  a  hair." 

"Now  that's  a  case  in  p'int,"  replied  Solomon, 
nodding  after  the  vanishing  figure  of  Abel.  "All  his 
wits  are  in  his  eyes,  as  you  can  tell  jest  to  look  at  him 
—  an'  for  sech  a  little  hop-o'-my-thumb  female 
that  don't  reach  nigh  up  to  his  shoulder." 

"I  can't  see  any  particular  good  looks  in  the  gal, 
myself,"  remarked  Mrs.  Bottom,  "but  then,  when 
it's  b'iled  down  to  the  p'int,  it  ain't  her,  but  his  own 
wishes  he's  chasin'." 

"Did  you  mark  the  way  she  veered  from  him  to 
Mr.  Jonathan  the  other  day?"  inquired  William 
Ming,  "she's  the  sort  that  would  flirt  with  a  scare 
crow  if  thar  warn't  anything  else  goin'." 

"The  truth  is  that  her  eyes  are  bigger  than  her 
morals,  an'  I  said  it  the  first  time  I  ever  seed  her," 
rejoined  old  Adam.  "My  taste,  even  when  I  was 
young,  never  ran  to  women  that  was  mo'  eyes  than 
figger." 

Still  discoursing,  they  stumbled  out  into  the  dusk, 
through  which  Abel's  large  figure  loomed  ahead  of 
them. 

"A  man  that's  born  to  trouble,  an*  that  of  the 
fightin'  kind  —  as  the  sparks  fly  upward,"  added  the 
elder. 

As  the  miller  drove  out  of  the  wood,  the  rustle  of 
the  leaves  under  his  wheels  changed  from  the  soft 


SHOWS  TWO  SIDES  OF  A  QUARREL        111 

murmurs  in  the  moist  hollows  to  the  crisp  crackle  in 
the  open  places.  In  the  west  Venus  hung  silver  white 
over  the  new  moon,  and  below  the  star  and  the  crescent 
a  single  pine  tree  stood  as  clearly  defined  as  if  it  were 
pasted  on  a  grey  background  of  sky. 

Half  a  mile  farther  on,  where  his  road  narrowed 
abruptly,  a  voice  hallooed  to  him  as  he  approached, 
and  driving  nearer  he  discerned  dimly  a  man's  figure 
standing  beside  a  horse  that  had  gone  lame. 

"Halloo,  there?  Have  you  a  light?  My  horse 
has  got  a  stone  or  cast  a  shoe,  I  can't  make  out  which 
it  is." 

Reaching  for  the  lantern  under  his  seat,  Abel 
alighted,  and  after  calling  "Whoa!"  to  his  mare, 
walked  a  few  steps  forward  to  the  stationary  horse 
and  rider  in  the  dusk  ahead.  As  the  light  shone  on 
the  man  and  he  recognized  Jonathan  Gay,  he  hesi 
tated  an  instant,  as  though  uncertain  whether  to 
advance  or  retreat. 

"If  I'd  known  'twas  you,"  he  observed  gruffly,  "I 
shouldn't  have  been  so  quick  about  getting  down  out 
of  my  gig." 

"Thank  you,  all  the  same,"  replied  Gay  in  his  pleas 
ant  voice.  "It  doesn't  seem  to  be  a  stone,  after  all," 
he  added.  "I'm  rather  afraid  he  got  a  sprain  when 
he  stumbled  into  a  hole  a  yard  or  two  back." 

Kneeling  in  the  road,  Abel  lifted  the  horse's  foot, 
and  felt  for  the  injury  with  a  practised  hand. 

"Needs  a  bandage,"  he  said  at  last  curtly.  "I 
happen  to  have  a  bottle  of  liniment  in  the  gig." 

The  light  glided  like  a  winged  insect  over  the  strip 
of  corduroy  road,  and  a  minute  later  the  pungent 
odour  of  the  liniment  floated  to  Gay's  nostrils. 


THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

"Give  me  anything  you  have  for  a  compress,"  re 
marked  the  miller,  dropping  again  on  his  knees.  "Pick 
a  few  of  those  Jimson  weeds  by  the  fence  and  lend  me 
your  handkerchief  —  or  a  couple  of  them  would  be 
still  better.  There,  now,  that's  the  best  I  can  do," 
he  added  after  a  moment.  "Lead  him  slowly  and  be 
sure  to  look  where  you're  going." 

"I  will,  thank  you  —  but  can  you  find  your  way 
without  the  lantern?" 

"Hannah  can  travel  the  road  in  the  dark  and 
so  can  I  for  that  matter.  You  needn't  thank  me,  by 
the  way.  I  wouldn't  have  troubled  about  you,  but 
I've  a  liking  for  horses." 

"A  jolly  good  thing  it  was  for  me  that  you  came  up 
at  the  instant.  I  say,  Revercomb,  I'm  sorry  it  was 
your  brother  I  got  into  a  row  with  this  morning." 

"Oh,  that's  another  score.  We  haven't  settled  it 
yet,"  retorted  the  miller,  as  he  stepped  into  his  gig. 
"You've  warned  us  off  your  land,  so  I'll  trouble  you 
to  keep  to  the  turnpike  and  avoid  the  bridle  path 
that  crosses  my  pasture." 

Before  Gay  could  reply,  the  other  had  whistled  to 
his  mare  and  was  spinning  over  the  flat  road  into  the 
star-spangled  distance. 

When  the  miller  reached  home  and  entered  the 
kitchen,  his  mother's  first  words  related  to  the  plight 
of  Archie,  who  sat  sullenly  nursing  his  bruised  mouth 
in  one  corner. 

"If  you've  got  any  of  the  Hawtrey  blood  in  yo' 
veins  you'll  take  sides  with  the  po'  boy,"  she  said. 
"Thar's  Abner  settin'  over  thar  so  everlastin'  mealy 
mouthed  that  he  won't  say  nothin'  mo'  to  the  p'int 
than  that  he  knew  all  the  time  it  would  happen." 


SHOWS  TWO  SIDES  OF  A  QUARREL        113 

"Well,  that's  enough,  ain't  it?"  growled  Abner;  "I 
did  know  it  would  happen  sure  enough  from  the  out 
set." 

"Thar  ain't  any  roasin'  him,"  observed  Sarah,  with 
scorn.  "I  declar,  I  believe  pa  over  thar  has  got  mo* 
sperit  in  him  even  if  he  does  live  mostly  on  cornmeal 
mush." 

"Plenty  of  sperit  in  me  —  plenty  of  sperit,"  chirped 
grandfather,  alert  as  an  aged  sparrow  that  still  con 
trives  to  hop  stiffly  in  the  sunshine. 

"Oh,  yes,  he's  sperit  left  in  him,  though  he's  three 
years  older  than  I  am,"  remarked  grandmother,  with 
bitterness.  "He  ain't  wo'  out  with  work  and  with 
child  bearin'  befo'  he  was  ninety.  He  ain't  bald,  he 
ain't  toothless,"  she  concluded  passionately,  as  if 
each  of  grandfather's  blessings  were  an  additional 
insult  to  her.  "He  can  still  eat  hard  food  when  he 
wants  it." 

"For  pity's  sake,  be  quiet,  ma,  "commanded  Sarah 
sternly,  at  which  the  old  woman  broke  into  sobs. 

"Yes,  I  must  be  quiet,  but  he  can  still  talk,"  she 
moaned. 

"Tell  me  about  it,  Archie,"  said  Abel,  drawing  off 
his  overcoat  and  sitting  down  to  his  supper.  "I 
passed  Jonathan  Gay  in  the  road  and  he  asked  me 
to  bind  up  his  horse's  sprain." 

"He'd  be  damned  befo'  I'd  bind  up  a  sprain  for 
him!"  burst  out  Archie,  with  violence.  "Met  me 
with  a  string  of  partridges  this  morning  and  jumped  on 
me,  blast  him,  as  if  he'd  caught  me  in  the  act  of  steal 
ing.  I'd  like  to  know  if  we  hadn't  hunted  on  that  land 
before  he  or  his  rotten  old  uncle  were  ever  thought 
of?" 


114  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

"Ah,  those  were  merry  days,  those  were!"  piped 
grandfather.  "Used  to  go  huntin'  myself  when  I  was 
young,  with  Mr.  Jordan,  an'  brought  home  any  day 
as  many  fine  birds  as  I  could  carry.  Trained  his 
dogs  for  him,  too." 

"Thar  was  al'ays  time  for  him  to  go  huntin'," 
whimpered  grandmother. 

"What  are  you  goin'  to  do  about  it,  Abel?"  asked 
Sarah,  turning  upon  him  with  the  smoking  skillet 
held  out  in  her  hand. 

At  the  question  Blossom  Revercomb,  who  was  seated 
at  work  under  the  lamp,  raised  her  head  and  waited 
with  an  anxious,  expectant  look  for  the  answer.  She 
was  embroidering  a  pair  of  velvet  slippers  for  Mr. 
Mullen  —  a  task  begun  with  passion  and  now  ending 
in  weariness.  While  she  listened  for  Abel's  response, 
her  long  embroidery  needle  remained  suspended  over 
the  toe  of  the  slipper,  where  it  gleamed  in  the  lamp 

light. 

"I  don't  know,"  replied  Abel,  and  Blossom  drew 
a  repressed  sigh  of  relief;  "I've  just  ordered  him 
to  keep  clear  of  our  land,  if  that's  what  you're  hintin' 
at." 

"If  you  had  the  sperit  of  yo'  grandpa  you'd  have 
knocked  him  down  in  the  road,"  said  Sarah  angrily. 

"Yes,  yes,  I'd  have  knocked  him  down  in  the  road," 
chimed  in  the  old  man,  with  the  eagerness  of  a  child. 

"You  can't  knock  a  man  down  when  he  asks  to 
borrow  your  lantern,"  returned  Abel,  doggedly,  on 
the  defensive. 

"Oh,  you  can't,  can't  you?"  jeered  Sarah.  "All 
you're  good  for,  I  reckon,  is  to  shuck  corn  or  peel 
potatoes!" 


SHOWS  TWO  SIDES  OF  A  QUARREL        115 

For  a  minute  Abel  stared  at  her  in  silence.  "I 
declare,  mother,  I  don't  believe  you're  any  better 
than  a  heathen,"  he  remarked  sadly  at  last. 

"Well,  I'm  not  the  kind  of  Christian  you  are,  any 
way,"  retorted  Sarah,  "I'd  like  to  know  whar  you'll 
find  anything  in  Scripture  about  not  knockin'  a  man 
down  because  he  asks  you  for  a  lantern.  I  thought 
I  knew  my  Bible  —  but  I  reckon  you  are  better  ac 
quainted  with  it  —  you  an'  yo'  Mr.  Mullen." 

"Of  course,  you  know  your  Bible.  I  wasn't  meanin* 
that." 

"Then  if  readin'  yo'  Bible  ain't  bein'  a  Christian, 
I  suppose  it's  havin'  curly  hair,  an'  gittin'  up  in  the 
pulpit  an'  mincin'.  WTho  are  those  slippers  for, 
Keren-happuch  ? " 

"Mr.  Mullen,  grandma." 

"Well,  if  I  was  goin'  to  embroider  slippers  for  a 
minister,"  taunted  Sarah,  "I'd  take  care  to  choose 
one  that  could  repeat  his  Scripture  when  he  was 
called  on." 

"Ah,  'tis  the  age,  not  the  man,"  lamented  grand 
father,  "'tis  an  age  of  small  larnin'  an'  weak-kneed  an' 
mealy  mouthed  into  the  bargain.  Why,  they're  actually 
afeared  to  handle  hell-fire  in  the  pulpit  any  longer,  an* 
the  texts  they  spout  are  that  tame  an'  tasteless  that  'tis 
like  dosin'  you  with  flaxseed  tea  when  you're  needin* 
tar-water.  'Twas  different  when  I  was  young  an* 
in  my  vigour,"  he  went  on  eagerly,  undisturbed  by 
the  fact  that  nobody  paid  the  slightest  attention  to 
what  he  was  saying,  "for  sech  was  the  power  and  logic 
of  Parson  Claymore's  sermons  that  he  could  convict 
you  of  the  unpardonable  sin  against  the  Holy  Ghost 
even  when  you  hadn't  committed  it.  A  moj  blame- 


116  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

less  soul  never  lived  than  my  father,  yet  I  remember 
one  Sunday  when  parson  fixed  his  eye  upon  him  an' 
rolled  out  his  stirrin'  text  'Thou  art  the  man/  he  was 
so  taken  by  surprise  an'  suddenness  that  he  just 
nodded  back  at  the  pulpit  an'  answered,  'Yes,  parson, 
I  am,  if  you'll  excuse  me. ' ' 

"It's  a  pity  thar  ain't  mo'  like  Parson  Claymore 
now,"  remarked  Sarah,  who  had  stopped  to  listen  to 
the  concluding  words  of  the  anecdote.  "Thar  ain't 
vim  enough  in  this  generation  of  preachers  to  skeer  a 
rabbit." 

Her  profile,  with  its  sparse  wave  of  hair  from  the 
forehead,  was  repeated  in  grotesque  exaggeration  on 
the  wall  at  her  back.  The  iron  will  in  her  lent  a 
certain  metallic  hardness  to  her  features,  and  her 
shadow  resembled  in  outline  the  head  on  some  ancient 
coin  that  had  lain  buried  for  centuries.  Intrenched 
behind  an  impregnable  self-esteem,  she  had  never 
conceded  a  point,  never  admitted  a  failure,  never 
accepted  a  compromise.  "It  ain't  no  wonder  that  a 
new  comer  thinks  he  can  knock  you  down  an'  set  on 
you  for  shootin'  a  few  birds,"  she  added,  after  a 
moment. 

"He'll  find  out  I  ain't  done  with  him  yet,"  growled 
Archie,  and  rising  from  his  seat,  he  took  down  his  gun 
and  began  polishing  the  barrel  with  an  old  yarn 
stocking  of  Sarah's. 

The  long  needle  missed  the  hole  at  which  Blossom 
had  pointed  it,  and  she  looked  up  with  a  sullen  droop 
to  her  mouth. 

"I  reckon  Mr.  Gay  has  just  as  good  a  right  to  his 
things  as  we  have  to  ours,"  she  said. 

"Right !     Who  wants  his  right? "  flared  Archie,  turn- 


SHOWS  TWO  SIDES  OF  A  QUARREL        117 

ing  upon  her.  "You'll  say  next,  I  reckon,  that  he  had 
a  right  to  split  my  upper  lip  open  if  he  wanted  to." 

"From  the  way  grandma  carries  on  anybody  would 
think  that  was  what  she  wanted,"  persisted  Blossom, 
adhering  stubbornly  to  her  point,  "she  sounds  as  if 
she  were  mad  because  people  ain't  everlastingly 
fighting." 

"You  needn't  think  I  don't  see  what  you're  aimin' 
at,  Keren-happuch,"  rejoined  Sarah,  who  used  this 
name  only  in  moments  of  anger,  "you're  tryin'  to 
make  me  think  a  grown  man  can't  do  anything  better 
than  get  up  in  the  pulpit  an'  mouth  texts  so  soft  that 
a  babe  couldn't  cut  its  teeth  on  'em.  You've  had 
notions  in  yo'  head  about  Orlando  Mullen  ever  since 
he  came  here,  an'  you  ain't  fooled  me  about  'em." 

"Thar,  thar,  don't  you  begin  pesterin'  Blossom," 
interposed  Abner,  aroused  at  last  from  his  apathy. 

"Notions  about  Mr.  Mullen!"  repeated  Blossom, 
and  though  there  was  a  hot  flush  in  her  face,  her  tone 
was  almost  one  of  relief. 


CHAPTER  IX 

IN  WHICH   MOLLY    FLIRTS 

ON  a  November  morning  several  weeks  later,  when 
the  boughs  of  trees  showed  almost  bare  against  the  sky, 
Molly  Merryweather  walked  down  to  Bottom's  store 
to  buy  a  bottle  of  cough  syrup  for  Reuben,  who  had 
a  cold.  Over  the  counter  Mrs.  Bottom,  as  she  was 
still  called  from  an  hereditary  respect  for  the  house 
rather  than  for  the  husband,  delivered  a  good-natured 
rebuke  while  she  wrapped  the  bottle  in  coarse  brown 
paper.  The  store,  which  smelt  of  dry-goods  and 
ginger  snaps,  was  a  small  square  room  jutting  abruptly 
out  of  the  bar,  from  which  it  derived  both  its  warmth 
and  its  dignity. 

"Even  men  folks  have  got  the  sperit  of  worms  and 
will  turn  at  last,"  she  remarked  in  her  cheerful  voice, 
which  sounded  as  if  it  issued  from  the  feather  bed  she 
vaguely  resembled. 

"Let  them  turn  —  I  can  do  without  them  very  well, " 
replied  Molly,  tossing  her  head. 

"Ah,  you're  young  yet,  my  dear,  an'  thar's  a  long 
road  ahead  of  you.  But  wait  till  you've  turned 
forty  an'  you'll  find  that  the  man  you  throwed  over 
at  twenty  will  come  handy,  if  for  nothin'  mo'  than  to 
fill  a  gap  in  the  chimney.  I  ain't  standin'  up  for  'em, 
mind  you,  an*  I  can't  remember  that  I  ever  heard 
anything  particular  to  thar  credit  as  a  sex  —  but 

118 


MOLLY  FLIRTS  119 

po'  things  as  we  allow  'em  to  be,  thar  don't  seem  but 
one  way  to  git  along  without  wan  tin'  'em,  an'  that  is 
to  have  'em.  It's  sartain  sure,  however,  that  they 
fill  a  good  deal  mo'  of  yo'  thought  when  they  ain't 
around  than  when  they  are.  Why,  look  at  William, 
now  —  the  first  time  he  axed  me  to  marry  him,  I 
thought  to  myself,  *  you're  slue-footed  an'  slack-kneed 
an'  addle-headed,  an'  I  wouldn't  marry  you  for  a 
million ! ' —  but  the  last  time,  twenty  years  later,  I 
kept  savin'  *y°ll're  still  slue-footed  an'  slack-kneed 
an'  addle-headed  an'  I'll  marry  you  whether  or  no.' 
Twenty  years  may  not  change  a  man  for  the  better, 
but  it  does  a  powerful  lot  toward  persuadin'  a  woman 
to  put  up  with  the  worst!" 

"Well,  best  or  worst,  I've  seen  enough  of  marriage, 
Mrs.  Bottom,  to  know  that  I  shouldn't  like  it." 

"I  ain't  denyin'  it  might  be  improved  on  without 
hurtin'  it  —  but  a  single  woman's  a  terrible  lonesome 
body,  Molly." 

"I'm  not  lonely,  while  I  have  grandfather." 
"He's  old  an'  he  ain't  got  many  years  ahead  of  him." 
"If  I  lose  him  I'll  go  to  Applegate  and  trim  hats 
for  a  living. " 

"It's  a  shame,  Molly,  with  the  po'  miller  splittin' 
his  heart  over  you. " 

"He'll  mend  it.    They're  like  that,  all  of  them." 
"But  Mr.   Mullen?     Ain't  he  different  now,  bein' 
a  parson?" 

"No,  he's  just  the  same,  and  besides  he'd  always 
think  he'd  stooped  to  marry  me. " 

"Then  take  Jim  Halloween.  With  three  good  able- 
bodied  lovers  at  yo'  beck  an'  call,  it's  a  downright 
shame  to  die  an  old  maid  jest  from  pure  contrariness. 


120  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

It's  better  arter  all,  to  eat  dough  that  don't  rise  than 
to  go  hungry." 

A  step  sounded  on  the  platform  outside  and  a 
lank,  good-looking  countryman  glanced  cautiously 
in  through  the  crack  in  the  door.  Observing  Molly, 
he  spat  a  wad  of  tobacco  over  the  hitching  rail  by  the 
steps,  and  stopped  to  smooth  his  straw-coloured  hair 
with  the  palm  of  his  hand  before  crossing  the  thresh 
old. 

"Thar's  Jim  Halloween  now  jest  as  we  were  speakin' 
of  him,"  whispered  Betsey  Bottom,  with  a  nudge  at 
Molly's  shoulder. 

"Well,  if  that  don't  beat  all,"  drawled  the  young 
man,  in  an  embarrassed  rapture,  as  he  entered.  "I 
was  gettin'  my  horse  shod  over  thar  at  Tim  Mai- 
lory's,  an'  I  thought  to  myself  that  I'd  jest  drop  over 
an'  say  'howdy'  to  Mrs.  Bottom." 

"Oh,  I  reckon  you  caught  a  glimpse  of  red  through 
the  door, "  chuckled  Betsey,  who  was  possessed  of  the 
belief  that  it  was  her  Christian  duty  to  further  any 
match,  good  or  bad,  that  came  under  her  eye. 

"I  must  be  going,  so  don't  hurry  your  visit,"  re 
plied  Molly,  laughing.  "Mrs.  Hatch  has  been  in 
bed  for  a  week  and  I'm  on  my  way  to  see  Judy. " 

"I'll  walk  a  bit  of  the  road  with  you  if  you  ain't 
any  serious  objection,"  remarked  the  lover,  preparing 
to  accompany  her. 

"Oh,  no,  none  in  the  world,"  she  replied  demurely, 
"you  may  carry  my  cough  syrup." 

"It  ain't  for  yourself,  I  hope?"  he  inquired,  with  a 
look  of  alarm. 

"No,  for  grandfather.  He  caught  cold  staying  in 
the  barn  with  the  red  cow. " 


MOLLY  FLIRTS  121 

"Well,  I'm  glad  'taint  for  you  —  I  don't  like  a 
weak-chested  woman." 

She  looked  up  smiling  as  they  passed  the  store  into 
the  sunken  road  which  led  in  the  direction  of  Solomon 
Hatch's  cottage. 

"I  did  see  a  speck  of  red  through  the  crack,"  he 
confessed  after  a  minute,  as  if  he  were  unburdening 
his  conscience  of  a  crime. 

"You  mean  you  saw  my  cap  or  jacket  —  or  maybe 
my  gloves?" 

"It  was  yo'  cap,  an*  so  I  came  in.  I  hope  you  have 
no  particular  objection?"  His  face  had  flushed  to  a 
violent  crimson  and  in  his  throat  his  Adam's  apple 
worked  rapidly  up  and  down  between  the  high  points 
of  his  collar.  "I  mean,"  he  stammered  presently, 
"that  I  wouldn't  have  gone  in  if  I  hadn't  seen  that 
bit  of  red  through  the  do'.  I  suppose  I  had  better  tell 
you,  that  I've  been  thinking  a  great  deal  about  you 
in  the  evening  when  my  day's  work  is  over. " 

"I'm  glad  I  don't  interfere  with  your  farming." 

"That  would  be  a  pity,  wouldn't  it?  Do  you  ever 
think  of  me,  I  wonder,  at  the  same  time?"  he  inquired 
sentimentally. 

"I  can't  tell  because  I  don't  know  just  what  that 
time  is,  you  see." 

"Well,  along  after  supper  generally  —  particularly 
if  ma  has  made  buckwheat  cakes  an'  I've  eaten  a  hearty 
meal  an'  feel  kind  of  cosy  an'  comfortable  when  I 
set  down  by  the  fire  an'  there's  nothin'  special  to  do. " 

"But  you  see  I  don't  like  buckwheat  cakes,  and  I've 
always  something  *  special'  to  do  at  that  hour." 

"Ah,  you  don't  mean  it,  do  you  —  about  not  liking 
buckwheat  cakes?  As  for  the  rest,  bein'  a  woman, 


122  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

I  reckon  you  would  have  the  washin'  up  to  attend  to 
just  at  that  time.  I  don't  like  a  woman  that  sets 
around  idle  after  supper  —  an'  I'm  glad  you're  one  to 
be  brisk  an'  busy  about  the  house,  though  I'm  sorry 
you  ain't  over  partial  to  buckwheat.  May  I  inquire, 
if  you  don't  object  to  tellin'  me,  what  is  yo'  favourite 
food?" 

"It's  hard  to  say  —  I  have  so  many  —  bread  and 
jam,  I  believe." 

"I  hope  you  don't  think  I'm  too  pressin'  on  the 
subject,  but  ma  has  always  said  that  there  wasn't 
any  better  bond  for  matrimony  than  the  same  taste 
in  food.  Do  you  think  she's  right?  " 

"I  shouldn't  wonder.  She's  had  experience  any 
way." 

"Yes,  that's  jest  what  I  tell  her  —  she's  had  expe 
rience  an'  she  ought  to  know.  Pa  and  she  never  had 
a  word  durin'  the  thirty  years  of  their  marriage,  an' 
she  always  said  she  ruled  him  not  with  the  tongue,  but 
with  the  fryin'  pan.  I  don't  reckon  there's  a  better 
cook  than  ma  in  this  part  of  the  country,  do  you?" 

"I'm  quite  sure  there  isn't.  She  has  given  up  her 
life  to  it." 

"To  be  sure  she  has  —  every  minute  of  it,  like  the 
woman  whose  price  is  above  rubies  that  Mr.  Mullen 
is  so  fond  of  preachin'  about."  For  a  moment  he 
considered  the  fact  as  though  impressed  anew  by  its 
importance.  "I'm  glad  you  feel  that  way,  because 
ma  has  always  stuck  out  that  you  had  the  makin*  of 
a  mighty  fine  cook  in  you." 

"Has  she?     That  was  nice  of  her,  wasn't  it?" 

"Well,  she  wouldn't  have  said  so  if  she  hadn't 
thought  it.  It  ain't  her  way  to  say  pleasant  things 


MOLLY  FLIRTS  123 

when  she  can  help  it.  You  must  judge  her  by  her  work 
not  by  her  talk,  pa  used  to  say  of  her." 

"She's  the  kind  that  doesn't  mind  taking  trouble 
for  you,  I  know  that  about  her, "  replied  Molly,  gravely. 

"You're  right  about  that,  an*  you're  the  same  way, 
I  am  sure.  I've  watched  you  pretty  closely  with  your 
grandfather. " 

"Yes,  I  believe  I  am  —  with  grandfather." 

"  'Twill  be  the  same  way  when  you  marry,  I  was 
sayin'  as  much  to  ma  only  yesterday.  *  She'd  be 
jest  as  savin'  an'  thrifty  as  you,'  I  said,  'if  she  got  the 
right  man  to  marry  her'  —  I  mean,  of  course,  if  the 
right  man  got  you  to  marry  him, —  but  'tis  all  the 
same  in  the  end."  Again  he  paused,  cleared  his 
throat,  and  swallowed  convulsively,  "I've  sometimes 
felt  that  I  might  be  the  right  man,  Miss  Molly,"  he 
said. 

"O  Mr.  Halloween!" 

"Why,  I  thought  you  knew  I  felt  so  from  the  way 
you  looked  at  me. " 

"But  I  can't  help  the  way  I  look,  can  I?" 

"Well,  I've  told  you  now,  so  it  ain't  a  secret.  I've 
thought  about  askin'  you  for  more  than  a  year  —  ever 
since  you  smiled  at  me  one  Sunday  in  church  while 
Mr.  Mullen  was  preachin'." 

"Did  I?     I've  quite  forgotten  it!" 

"I  suppose  you  have,  seein'  you  smile  so  frequent. 
But  that  put  the  idea  in  my  head  anyway  an'  I've 
cared  a  terrible  lot  about  marryin'  you  ever  since. " 

"But  I'm  not  the  kind  of  person,  at  all.  I'm  not 
saving,  I'm  not  thrifty." 

"I  hope  you're  wrong  —  but  even  if  you're  not, 
well,  I  want  you  terrible  hard  jest  the  same.  You  see 


THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

I  can  always  keep  an  eye  on  the  expenses, "  he  hastened 
to  add,  and  made  a  desperate  clutch  at  her  hand. 

The  red  worsted  mitten  came  off  in  his  grasp,  and 
he  stood  eyeing  it  ruefully  while  he  waited  for  her 
answer. 

"I've  determined  never,  never  to  marry,"  she 
replied. 

His  chest  heaved.  "I  knew  you  felt  that  way  about 
the  others,  but  I  thought  somehow  I  was  different," 
he  rejoined. 

"No,  it's  not  the  man,  but  marriage  that  I  don't 
like,"  she  responded,  shaking  her  head.  "It's  all 
work  an'  no  play  wherever  I've  seen  it." 

"It's  terrible  for  a  woman  to  feel  like  that,  an' 
goes  against  God  an'  nature,"  he  answered.  "Have 
you  ever  tried  pray  in'  over  it?" 

"No,  I've  never  tried  that,  because  you  see,  I  don't 
really  mind  it  very  much.  Please  give  me  my  glove 
now,  here  is  Judy's  cottage. " 

"But  promise  me  first  that  you'll  try  prayin'  over 
your  state  of  mind,  an'  that  I  may  go  on  hopin'  that 
you  will  change  it?" 

Turning  with  her  hand  still  outstretched  for  the 
glove,  she  glanced  roguishly  from  his  face  to  the  shut 
tered  window  of  the  Hatch  cottage. 

"Oh,  I  don't  mind  your  hoping,"  she  answered, 
composing  her  expression  to  demureness,  "if  only  you 
won't  hope  —  very  hard. " 

Then,  leaving  him  overwhelmed  by  his  emotions, 
she  tripped  up  the  narrow  walk,  bordered  by  stunted 
rose-bushes,  to  the  crumbling  porch  of  Solomon's 
house.  At  the  door  a  bright  new  gig,  with  red  wheels, 
caught  her  eye,  and  before  the  mischievous  dimples 


MOLLY  FLIRTS  125 

had  fled  from  her  cheek,  she  ran  into  the  arms  of  the 
Reverend  Orlando  Mullen. 

Her  confusion  brought  a  beautiful  colour  into  his 
cheeks,  while,  in  a  chivalrous  effort  to  shield  her  from 
further  embarrassment,  he  turned  his  eyes  to  the  face 
of  Judy  Hatch,  which  was  lifted  at  his  side  like  the 
rapt  countenance  of  one  of  the  wan-featured,  adoring 
saints  of  a  Fra  Angelico  painting.  No  one  —  not  even 
the  nurse  of  his  infancy  —  had  ever  imputed  a  fault 
either  to  his  character  or  to  his  deportment;  for  he 
had  come  into  the  world  endowed  with  an  infallible 
instinct  for  the  commonplace.  In  any  profession  he 
would  have  won  success  as  a  shining  light  of  mediocrity, 
since  the  ruling  motive  of  his  conduct  was  less  the 
ambition  to  excel  than  the  moral  inability  to  be 
peculiar.  His  mind  w^as  small  and  solemn,  and  he  had 
worn  three  straight  and  unyielding  wrinkles  across 
his  forehead  in  his  earnest  endeavour  to  prevent 
people  from  acting,  and  especially  from  thinking, 
lightly.  This  sedulous  devotion  to  the  public  morals 
kept  him  not  only  a  trifle  spare  in  figure,  but  lent  an 
habitual  manner  of  divine  authority  to  his  most  trivial 
utterance.  His  head,  seen  from  the  rear,  was  a  little 
flat,  but  this,  fortunately,  did  not  show  in  the  pulpit  - 
where  at  the  age  of  twenty-four  his  eloquence  en 
raptured  his  congregation. 

"I  postponed  my  visit  to  Applegate  until  to-mor 
row,"  he  said,  when  he  had  given  her  what  he  thought 
was  sufficient  time  to  recover  her  composure.  "If  you 
are  returning  shortly,  perhaps  I  may  have  the  pleasure 
of  driving  you  in  my  gig.  I  have  just  come  to  inquire 
after  Mrs.  Hatch. " 

"It  would  be  kind  of  vou,  for  I  am  a  little  tired," 


126  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

responded  Molly.  "I  came  to  speak  to  Judy,  and  then 
I  am  to  stop  at  the  mill  to  borrow  a  pattern  from  Blos 
som  Revercomb.  Are  you  going  that  way,  I  wonder?  " 

"I  shall  make  it  my  way,"  he  replied  gallantly, 
"as  soon  as  you  are  ready.  Don't  hurry,  I  beg  of  you. 
It  is  gratifying  to  me  to  find  that  you  have  so  soon 
taken  my  advice  and  devoted  a  portion  of  your  days 
to  visiting  the  sick  and  the  afflicted." 

With  her  back  discreetly  turned  upon  Judy,  she 
looked  up  at  him  for  a  moment,  and  something  in  her 
eyes  rendered  unnecessary  the  words  that  fell  slowly 
and  softly  from  her  lips. 

"You  give  such  good  advice,  Mr.  Mullen." 

A  boyish  eagerness  showed  in  his  face,  breaking 
through  the  professional  austerity  of  his  manner. 

"I  hope  you've  advised  Judy  this  morning,"  she 
added  before  he  could  answer. 

"To  the  best  of  my  ability,"  he  replied  gravely. 
"And  now,  as  I  have  said  before,  there  is  no  hurry, 
but  if  you  are  quite  ready,  I  should  suggest  our  start 
ing." 

"Just  a  word  or  two  with  Judy,"  she  answered, 
and  when  the  words  were  spoken  in  the  doorway 
she  laid  her  hand  in  the  rector's  and  mounted,  with 
his  scrupulous  assistance,  over  the  red  wheel  to  the 
shining  black  seat  of  the  gig,  which  smelt  of  leather 
and  varnish.  After  he  had  taken  his  place  beside  her 
he  tucked  in  the  laprobe  carefully  at  the  corners, 
rearranged  the  position  of  his  overcoat  at  her  back, 
and  suggested  that  she  should  put  the  bottle  of  cough 
syrup  in  the  bottom  of  the  vehicle. 

Like  all  his  attentions,  this  solicitude  about  the 
cough  syrup  had  an  air  that  was  at  once  amorous  and 


MOLLY  FLIRTS  127 

ministerial,  a  manner  of  implying,  "Observe  how  I 
take  possession  of  you  always  to  your  advantage. " 

"Are  you  quite  comfortable? "  he  asked  when 
they  had  rolled  between  the  stunted  rose-bushes  into 
the  turnpike. 

"Oh,  perfectly,  you  are  always  so  thoughtful, 
Mr.  Mullen." 

"  I  think  I  am  right  in  ranking  though tfulness  — 
or  consideration,  I  should  have  said  —  among  the 
virtues." 

"Indeed  you  are;  as  soon  as  I  found  that  you  had 
not  gone  to  Applegate  as  you  intended  to,  I  said  to 
myself  that,  of  course,  some  act  of  kindness,  had 
detained  you." 

His  large,  very  round  grey  eyes  grew  soft  as  he 
looked  at  her. 

"You  have  expressed  it  beautifully,  as  'an  act  of 
kindness,'"  he  returned,  "since  you  yourself  were  the 
cause  of  my  postponing  my  visit." 

"I  —  oh,  you  can't  mean  it?     What  have  I  done?" 

"Nothing.  Don't  alarm  yourself  —  absolutely 
nothing.  Three  months  ago  when  I  spoke  to  you  of 
marriage,  you  entreated  me  to  allow  you  a  little  time 
in  which  to  accustom  yourself  to  my  proposal.  That 
time  of  probation,  which  has  been,  I  hope,  equally 
trying  to  us  both,  has  ended  to-day." 

"But  I  don't  think  I  really  love  you,  Mr.  Mullen." 

"  I  trust  your  eyes  rather  than  your  words  —  and 
your  eyes  have  told  me,  all  unconsciously  to  your 
self,  your  secret." 

"Well,  I  do  love  your  sermons,  but ''' 

"My  sermons  jire  myself.  There  is  nothing  in  my 
life,  ftrust,  that  belies  my  preaching. " 


128  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

"I  know  how  good  you  are,  but  honestly  and  truly, 
I  don't  want  to  marry  anybody. " 

His  smile  hardened  slowly  on  his  face  like  an  im 
pression  on  metal  that  cools  into  solidity.  From  the 
beginning  he  had  conducted  his  courtship,  as  he  had 
conducted  his  sacred  office,  with  the  manner  of  a 
gentleman  and  the  infallibility  of  an  apostle.  Doubt 
of  his  perfect  fitness  for  either  vocation  had  never  en 
tered  his  head.  Had  it  done  so  he  would  probably 
have  dismissed  it  as  one  of  the  insidious  suggestions  of 
the  lower  man  —  for  the  lower  man  was  a  creature  who 
habitually  disagreed  with  his  opinions  and  whom  his 
soul  abhorred. 

As  he  sat  beside  her,  clerical,  well-groomed,  with 
his  look  of  small  yet  solemn  intelligence,  she  wondered 
seriously  if  he  would,  in  spite  of  all  opposition,  have 
his  way  with  her  at  last  and  pattern  her  to  his  liking? 

"I  am  not  in  the  least  what  you  think  me,  Mr. 
Mullen  —  I  don't  know  just  how  to  say  it " 

"There  is  but  one  thing  you  need  know,  dearest, 
and  that  is  that  you  love  me.  As  our  greatest  poet 
has  expressed  it  'To  know  no  more  is  woman's  happiest 
knowledge.'  " 

"But  I  can't  feel  that  you  really  —  really  care  for 
me.  How  can  you?" 

With  a  tender  gesture,  he  laid  his  free  hand  on  hers 
while  he  looked  into  her  downcast  face. 

"You  allude,  I  suppose,  to  the  sad  fact  of  your  birth," 
he  replied  gently,  "but  after  you  have  become  my  wife, 
you  will,  of  course  need  no  name  but  mine." 

"I'm  so  sorry,  Mr.  Mullen,  but  really  I  didn't 
mean  you  to  think  —  Oh,  there's  the  mill  and  Abel 
looking  out  of  the  window.  Please,  please  don't 


MOLLY  FLIRTS 

sit  so  close  to  me,  and  look  as  if  we  were  discussing 
your  sick  parishioners." 

He  obeyed  her  instantly,  quite  as  circumspect  as 
she  in  his  regard  for  the  proprieties. 

"You  are  excited  now,  Molly  dear,  but  you  will 
not  forbid  my  hoping  that  you  will  accept  my  pro 
posal,"  he  remarked  persuasively  as  the  gig  drew  up 
to  the  Revercombs'  gate. 

"Well,  yes,  if  you'll  let  me  get  down  now,  you  may 
hope,  if  you  wish  to. " 

Alighting  over  the  wheel  before  he  could  draw  off 
his  glove  and  assist  her,  she  hurried,  under  Abel's 
eyes,  to  the  porch,  where  Blossom  Revercomb  stood 
gazing  happily  in  the  direction  of  Jordan's  Journey 


CHAPTER  X 

THE  REVEREND  ORLANDO  MULLEN  PREACHES 
A  SERMON 

ON  THE  following  Sunday,  a  mild  autumn  morning, 
Mr.  Mullen  preached  one  of  his  most  impressive 
sermons  from  the  text,  "She  looketh  well  to  the 
ways  of  her  household,  and  eateth  not  the  bread  of 
idleness." 

Woman,  he  said  in  the  course  of  it,  was  created  to  look 
after  the  ways  of  her  household  in  order  that  man 
might  go  out  into  the  world  and  make  a  career.  No 
womanly  woman  cared  to  make  a  career.  What  the 
womanly  woman  desired  was  to  remain  an  Incentive, 
an  Ideal,  an  Inspiration.  If  the  womanly  woman 
possessed  a  talent,  she  did  not  use  it  —  for  this  would 
unsex  her  -  -  she  sacrificed  it  in  herself  in  order 
that  she  might  return  it  to  the  race  through  her  sons. 
Self-sacrifice  —  to  use  a  worn  metaphor  —  self-sacrifice 
was  the  breath  of  the  nostrils  of  the  womanly  woman. 
It  was  for  her  power  of  self-sacrifice  that  men  loved 
her  and  made  an  Ideal  of  her.  Whatever  else  woman 
gave  up,  she  must  always  retain  her  power  of  self- 
sacrifice  if  she  expected  the  heart  of  her  husband  to 
rejoice  in  her.  The  home  was  founded  on  sacrifice, 
and  woman  was  the  pillar  and  the  ornament  of  the 
home.  There  was  her  sphere,  her  purpose,  her  mis 
sion.  All  things  outside  of  that  sphere  belonged  to 

130 


THE  REVEREND  ORLANDO  MULLEN    131 

man,  except  the  privilege  of  ministering  to  the  sick 
and  the  afflicted  in  other  households. 

He  leaned  forward  in  the  old  pulpit,  his  shapely, 
well-kept  hand  hanging  over  the  edge  in  one  of  his 
most  characteristic  gestures;  and  the  autumn  sunlight, 
falling  through  the  plain  glass  windows,  shone  on  his 
fresh,  earnest  face,  and  on  his  chestnut  hair,  with 
glints  of  gold  in  it,  which  grew  in  high  peaks  from  his 
temples.  Immediately  below  him,  in  a  front  pew, 
sat  his  mother,  a  dried  little  old  woman,  with  beady 
black  eyes  and  a  pointed  chin,  which  jutted  out  from 
between  the  stiff  taffeta  strings  of  her  poke  bonnet. 
She  gazed  upward,  clasping  her  Prayer-book  in  her 
black  woollen  gloves,  which  were  darned  in  the  fingers; 
and  though  she  appeared  to  listen  attentively  to  the 
sermon,  she  was  wondering  all  the  time  if  the  coloured 
servant  at  home  would  remember  to  baste  the  roast 
pig  she  had  left  in  the  oven.  To-day  was  the  Rever 
end  Orlando's  birthday,  and  the  speckled  pig  she  had 
fattened  through  the  summer,  lay  now,  with  an  apple 
in  his  mouth,  on  the  trencher.  She  had  invited  Molly 
to  dine  with  them  rather  against  her  wishes,  for  she 
harboured  a  secret  fear  that  the  girl  was  trying  to 
marry  the  rector.  Besides,  as  she  said  to  herself, 
with  her  eyes  on  Orlando's  hand,  how  on  earth  could 
he  do  full  justice  to  the  pig  if  there  was  a  pretty  par 
ishioner  to  distract  his  attention? 

In  the  pew  next  to  Mrs.  Mullen  sat  old  Adam  Doo- 
little,  his  hand  behind  his  left  ear,  his  withered  old 
lips  moving  as  if  he  were  repeating  the  words  of  the 
sermon.  From  time  to  time  he  shook  his  head  as 
though  he  disagreed  with  a  sentence,  and  then  his 
lips  worked  more  rapidly,  and  an  obstinate,  argument- 


132  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

ative  look  appeared  in  his  face.  Mentally  he  was 
conducting  a  theological  dispute  with  the  preacher 
in  which  the  younger  man  suffered  always  a  crushing 
rhetorical  defeat.  Behind  him  sat  the  miller  and 
Blossom  Revercomb,  who  threw  an  occasional  anxious 
glance  at  the  empty  seat  beside  Mrs.  Gay  and  Kesiah; 
and  behind  them  Judy  Hatch  raised  her  plain,  enrapt 
ured  face  to  the  pulpit,  where  the  rector  had  shaken 
out  an  immaculately  ironed  handkerchief  and  wiped 
his  brow.  She  knew  who  had  ironed  that  handker 
chief  on  Wednesday,  which  was  Mrs.  Mullen's  washing 
day,  and  her  heart  rejoiced  as  she  remembered  the  care 
with  which  she  had  folded  the  creases. 

It  made  no  difference,  said  Mr.  Mullen,  replacing 
the  handkerchief  somewhere  under  his  white  surplice, 
whether  a  woman  was  ugly  or  beautiful,  since  they 
possessed  Scriptural  authority  for  the  statement  that 
beauty  was  vain,  and  no  God-fearing  man  would 
rank  loveliness  of  face  or  form  above  the  capacity  for 
self-sacrifice  and  the  unfailing  attendance  upon  the 
sick  and  the  afflicted  in  any  parish.  Beauty,  indeed, 
was  but  too  often  a  snare  for  the  unwary  —  temptresses, 
he  had  been  told,  were  usually  beautiful  persons. 

Molly's  lips  trembled  into  a  smile,  and  her  eyes  were 
wide  and  bright  as  she  met  those  of  the  preacher.  For 
an  instant  he  looked  at  her,  gentle,  admonishing, 
reproachful  —  then  his  gaze  passed  over  Judy's  ser 
aphic  features  to  the  face  of  an  old  grey  horse  that 
stared  wonderingly  in  through  the  south  window. 
Along  the  whitewashed  plank  fence  of  the  church 
yard,  other  horses  were  waiting  patiently  for  the  serv 
ice  to  end,  and  from  several  side  saddles,  of  an  an 
cient  pattern,  hung  flopping  alpaca  riding  skirts,  which 


THE  REVEREND  ORLANDO  MULLEN    133 

the  farmer's  wives  or  daughters  had  worn  over  their 
best  gowns  to  church.  A  few  locust  trees  shed  their 
remaining  small  yellow  leaves  on  the  sunken  graves, 
which  were  surrounded  by  crumbling  wooden  en 
closures.  Here  and  there,  farther  off,  a  flat  tomb 
stone  was  still  visible  in  the  tall  grass;  and  over  the 
dust  of  old  Jonathan  Gay  a  high  marble  cross,  select 
ed  by  his  brother's  widow,  bore  the  words,  unstained 
by  the  dripping  trees,  and  innocent  of  satire:  "Here 
lieth  in  the  hope  of  a  joyful  resurrection " 

At  the  end  of  the  service  there  was  a  rustle  either  of 
relief  or  disappointment,  and  the  congregation  filed 
slowly  through  the  south  doors,  where  the  old  grey 
horse  stood  resigned  and  expectant  amid  the  obliter 
ated  graves.  Mrs.  Gay,  who  had  lingered  in  the 
walk  to  speak  to  Mr.  Mullen,  raised  her  plaintive 
violet  eyes  to  his  face  when  he  appeared. 

"You  are  always  so  comforting.  I  don't  know  how 
to  thank  you  for  helping  me,"  she  murmured,  and 
added  impulsively  to  the  little  old  woman  at  his  side, 
"Oh,  what  a  blessing  such  a  son  must  be  to  you!" 

"Orlando's  never  given  me  a  moment's  worry  in 
his  life,  ma'am  —  not  even  when  he  was  teething," 
replied  Mrs.  Mullen,  who  looked  sharper  and  more 
withered  than  ever  in  the  broad  daylight.  "If  you'll 
believe  me,  he  wasn't  more  than  six  months  old  when 
I  said  to  his  father  that  I  could  tell  by  the  look  of  him 
lie  was  intended  for  the  ministry.  Such  sweetness, 
such  self-control  even  as  an  infant." 

"How  happy  he  must  make  you!  And  then,  to 
have  the  privilege  of  hearing  his  beautiful  sermons! 
But  you'll  lose  him  some  day,  as  I  was  just  saying  to 
Kesiah.  It  won't  be  long  before  some  fortunate  woman 


134  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

takes  him  away  from  you.    We  can  only  hope  she 
will  be  worthy  of  the  ideal  he  has  of  her." 

"Ah,  that's  just  it,  Mrs.  Gay,  I  sometimes  tell 
myself  there  isn't  a  woman  in  the  world  that's  fit  for 
him." 

She  spoke  as  fast  as  she  could,  eager  to  dilate  on 
the  subject  of  the  embarrassed  Orlando's  virtues, 
flattered  in  her  motherly  old  heart  by  the  praise  of 
his  sermons,  and  yet,  all  the  time,  while  her  peaked 
chin  worked  excitedly,  thinking  about  the  roasted 
young  pig  that  waited  for  her  to  attend  to  the  gar 
nishing. 

The  delay  was  short;  Orlando  silenced  her  at  last 
by  a  gentle  admonitory  pressure  of  her  elbow,  and  the 
two  ladies  drove  off  in  their  carriage,  while  Molly  walked 
sedately  out  of  the  churchyard  between  the  clergy 
man  and  his  mother.  The  girl  was  pleasantly  aware 
that  the  eyes  of  the  miller  and  of  Jim  Halloween  fol 
lowed  her  disapprovingly  as  she  went;  and  she  thought 
with  complacency  that  she  had  never  looked  better 
than  she  did  in  her  white  felt  hat  with  its  upturned 
brim  held  back  by  cherry-coloured  ribbon.  It  was  all  ] 
very  well  for  the  rector  to  say  that  beauty  was  of  less 
importance  than  visiting  the  sick,  but  the  fact  re 
mained  that  Judy  Hatch  visited  the  sick  more  zeal 
ously  than  she  —  and  yet  he  was  very  far,  indeed, 
from  falling  in  love  with  Judy  Hatch!  The  contra 
diction  between  man  and  his  ideal  of  himself  was  em 
bodied  before  her  under  a  clerical  waistcoat. 

"I  believe,"  remarked  the  Reverend  Orlando, 
thrusting  his  short  chin  as  far  as  possible  over  his 
collar,  which  buttoned  at  the  back,  "I  believe  that 
the  elder  Doolittle  nourishes  some  private  grudge 


THE  REVEREND  ORLANDO  MULLEN    135 

against  me.  He  has  a  most  annoying  habit  of  shaking 
his  head  at  me  during  the  sermon  as  though  he  dis 
agreed  with  my  remarks. " 

"The  man  must  be  an  infidel,"  observed  Mrs. 
Mullen,  with  asperity,  as  she  moved  on  in  front  of  him. 

"He  doesn't  know  half  the  time  what  he  is  doing/* 
said  Molly,  "you  know  he  passed  his  ninetieth  birth 
day  last  summer." 

"But  surely  you  cannot  mean  that  you  consider 
age  an  excuse  for  either  incivility  or  irreligion,"  re 
joined  her  lover,  pushing  aside  an  impertinent  carrot 
flower  that  had  shed  its  pollen  on  his  long  coat,  while 
he  regarded  his  mother's  back  with  the  expression  of 
indignant  suspicion  he  unconsciously  assumed  on 
the  rare  occasions  when  his  opinions  were  disputed. 
"Age  should  mellow,  should  soften,  should  sweeten." 

"I  suppose  it  should,  but  very  often  it  doesn't," 
retorted  Molly,  a  trifle  tartly,  for  the  sermon  had 
bored  her  and  she  looked  forward  with  dread  to  the 
dinner. 

At  her  words  Mrs.  Mullen,  who  was  walking  a  little 
ahead,  with  her  skirts  held  up  to  avoid  the  yellow 
stain  of  the  late  golden-rod,  glanced  sharply  back,  as 
she  had  done  in  church  when  old  Adam  had  coughed 
at  the  wrong  time  and  spoiled  the  full  effect  of  a  period. 

"One  reason  that  Orlando  is  so  helpful  to  people 
is  that  he  always  sees  so  clearly  just  what  they  ought 
to  be,"  she  observed.  "I  don't  believe  there's  a  man 
in  the  ministry  or  out,  who  has  a  higher  ideal  of  woman 
and  her  duty." 

"But  do  women  ever  live  up  to  his  ideal  of  them?" 

"It  isn't  his  fault  if  they  don't.  All  he  can  do  is 
to  point  it  out  to  them  earnestly  and  without  ceasing. " 


136  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

They  had  reached  the  rectory  gate,  where  she  hes 
itated  an  instant  with  her  hand  on  the  latch,  and 
her  head  bent  toward  the  house  in  a  surprised  and 
listening  attitude.  "I  declare,  Orlando,  if  I  didn't 
go  off  and  leave  that  cat  locked  up  in  the  parlour!" 
she  exclaimed  in  horror  as  she  hurried  away. 

"Yes,"  observed  Mr.  Mullen  in  his  tenderest  and 
most  ministerial  manner,  "my  ideal  is  a  high  one, 
and  when  I  look  into  your  face,  I  see  reflected  all  the 
virtues  I  would  have  you  reach.  I  see  you  the  perfect 
woman,  sharing  my  sorrows,  easing  my  afflictions  — 

Intoxicated  by  his  imagination,  he  turned  toward 
her  as  though  he  beheld  the  living  embodiment  of  his 
eloquence. 

For  a  minute  Molly  smiled  up  at  him;  then,  "I 
wonder  if  your  mother  really  locked  the  cat  in  the 
parlour,"  she  rejoined  demurely. 

After  the  birthday  dinner,  at  which  Mrs.  Mullen 
talked  ceaselessly  of  Orlando's  excellencies,  while  she 
reserved  the  choicest  piece  of  meat  and  the  fattest 
dumpling  for  his  plate,  Molly  tied  her  cherry-coloured 
strings  under  her  chin,  and  started  home,  with  a  basket 
of  apple  tarts  for  Reuben  on  her  arm.  At  the  cross 
roads  Mr.  Mullen  left  her  to  return  to  an  afternoon 
Sunday  school,  and  she  was  about  to  stop  at  the 
ordinary  to  ask  William  to  see  her  safely  over  the 
pasture,  when  Abel  Revercomb,  looking  a  trifle  awk 
ward  in  his  Sunday  clothes,  came  out  of  the  house  and 
held  out  his  hand  for  the  basket. 

"I  thought  you'd  be  coming  home  this  way  after 
dinner,"  he  said,  turning  his  head  stiffly  because  his 
high,  starched  collar  hurt  his  throat  when  he  moved. 
His  hair  was  brushed  flat  on  his  head  as  was  his 


THE  REVEREND  ORLANDO  MULLEN         137 

habit  on  Sundays,  and  he  wore  a  vivid  purple  tie, 
which  he  had  bought  on  his  last  journey  to  Applegate. 
He  had  never  looked  worse,  nor  had  he  ever  felt  quite 
so  confident  of  the  entire  correctness  of  his  appearance. 

As  Molly  made  no  reply,  but  merely  fell  into  step 
at  his  side,  he  inquired,  after  a  moment's  pause,  "How 
did  you  enjoy  the  sermon?" 

*  'Oh,  I  don't  like  to  be  preached  at,  and  I'm  sorry  for 
Mr.  Mullen's  wife  if  he  expects  her  to  ease  everybody's 
pains  in  the  parish.  He  looked  very  handsome  in 
church,"  she  added,  "didn't  you  think  so?" 

"I  didn't  notice,"  he  answered  ruefully.  "I  never 
pay  any  attention  to  the  way  a  man  looks,  in  church 
or  out  of  it." 

"Well,  I  do  — and  even  Judy  Hatch  does.  She 
asked  me  the  other  day  whom  I  thought  the  handsom 
est  man  in  the  neighbourhood,  and  I'm  sure  she  ex 
pected  me  to  say  Mr.  Mullen. " 

She  dimpled,  and  his  arm  went  out  impulsively 
toward  her. 

"But  you  didn't,  Molly?"  he  returned. 

"Why,  of  course  not  —  did  you  imagine  that  I 
should?  I  said  I  thought  Mr.  Jonathan  Gay  was 
the  best  looking." 

His  arm  fell  to  his  side,  and  for  a  minute  or  two  he 
walked  on  in  silence. 

"I  wish  I  didn't  love  you,  Molly,"  he  burst  out  at 
last.  "I  sometimes  almost  believe  that  you're  one 
of  the  temptresses  Mr.  Mullen  preached  against  this 
morning.  I've  tried  again  and  again  to  tear  you  out 
of  my  heart,  but  it  is  useless. " 

"Yes,  it's  useless,  Abel,"  she  answered,  melting  to 
dimples. 


138  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

"I  tell  myself,"  he  went  on  passionately,  "that 
you're  not  worth  it  —  that  you're  perfectly  heartless  — 
that  you're  only  a  flirt  —  that  other  men  have  held 
your  hands,  kissed  your  lips  even " 

"And  after  telling  yourself  those  dreadful  truths, 
what  happens?"  she  inquired  with  interest. 

"What  happens?  Well,  I  go  to  work  and  don't 
think  of  you  for  at  least  three  hours.  Then,  when  I 
am  dead  tired  I  stop  for  a  minute  to  rest,  and  as  soon 
as  my  eyes  fall  on  a  bit  of  green  grass,  or  a  flower 
growing  by  the  road,  or  the  blue  sky,  there  you  are 
again,  popping  in  between  them  with  your  big  eyes 
and  your  red  mouth  that  was  made  for  kisses.  I 
forget  how  heartless  and  light  you  are,  and  remember 
only  the  times  you've  crept  up  to  me  and  put  your 
hand  on  my  arm  and  said,  *  Abel,  I'm  sorry.'  Most  of 
all  I  remember  the  one  time  you  kissed  me,Molly." 

"Don't,  Abel,"  she  said  quickly,  and  her  voice 
broke  and  died  in  her  throat. 

As  he  drew  close  to  her,  she  walked  faster  until  her 
steps  changed  into  a  run. 

"If  you  only  knew  me  as  I  am,  you  wouldn't  care 
so,  Abel,"  she  threw  back  at  him. 

"I  don't  believe  you  know  yourself  as  you  are, 
Molly,"  he  answered.  "It's  not  you  that  leads  men 
on  to  make  love  to  you  and  then  throws  them  over  — 
as  you  have  thrown  me  —  as  you  will  throw  Mr. 
Mullen."  His  tone  grew  suddenly  stern.  "You 
don't  love  Mr.  Mullen,  and  you  know  it,"  he  added. 
"If  you  love  any  man  on  earth  to-day,  you  love  me. " 

At  his  first  change  from  tenderness  to  accusation,  her 
face  hardened  and  her  voice  returned  to  her  control. 

"What  right  have  you  to  judge  me,  Abel  Rever- 


THE  REVEREND  ORLANDO  MULLEN    139 

comb?"  she  asked  angrily.  "I've  had  one  sermon 
preached  at  me  to-day,  and  I'll  not  listen  to  another." 

"You  know  I'm  not  preaching  at  you,  Molly, 
but  I'm  a  man  of  flesh  and  blood,  not  of  straw.  How 
can  I  have  patience?" 

"I  never  asked  you  to  have  patience,  did  I?" 

"No,  and  I  don't  believe  you  want  it.  If  I'd  catch 
hold  of  you  and  shake  you,  you'd  probably  like  me 
better. " 

"It's  just  as  well  that  you  don't  try  it  to  see  how 
I'll  take  it." 

"Oh,  I  shan't  try  it.  I'll  go  on  still  believing  in 
you  against  yourself,  like  the  born  fool  I  am. " 

"You  may  believe  in  me  or  not  just  as  you  please  — 
but  it  isn't  my  fault  if  you  won't  go  off  and  marry 
Judy  Hatch,  as  I  have  begged  you  to.  She's  every 
thing  on  earth  that  Mr.  Mullen  preached  about  to-day 
in  his  sermon." 

"Hang  Judy  Hatch!  You  are  bent  on  starting  a 
quarrel  with  me,  that  is  the  trouble.  As  soon  as  you 
mentioned  Jonathan  Gay  I  knew  what  you  were  in 
for." 

"As  if  I  couldn't  say  a  man  was  good  looking  with 
out  putting  you  into  a  rage." 

"I'm  not  in  a  rage,  but  I  hate  a  flirt.  Every  sen 
sible  man  does." 

"Judy  Hatch  isn't  a  flirt." 

"Leave  Judy  Hatch  out  of  it  —  though  I've  more 
than  half  a  mind  to  walk  off  and  ask  her  to  marry  me. " 

"That's  just  what  I've  advised  you  to  do  for  the 
last  six  months,  isn't  it?" 

"Ah,  no,  you  haven't,  Molly,  no,  you  haven't  — 
and  you'd  be  just  as  sorry  as  I  the  minute  after  I  had 


140  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

done  it.  You've  got  some  small  foolish  childish  no 
tions  in  your  head  about  hating  men  —  but  you're 
much  nearer  loving  me  than  hating  me  at  this  moment, 
and  that's  why  you're  afraid!" 

"I'm  not  afraid  —  how  dare  you  say  so?" 

"Oh,  my  pretty,  how  foolish  we  are,  both  of  us! 
I'd  work  my  fingers  to  the  bone  for  you,  Molly,  I'd 
lie  down  and  let  your  little  feet  walk  over  me  if  they 
wanted  to  —  I'd  shed  my  life's  blood  for  you,  day 
by  day,  if  it  could  help  you. " 

"Every  one  of  you  say  this  in  the  beginning,  but 
it  isn't  true  in  the  end,"  she  answered. 

"Not  true  —  not  true?  Prove  it.  Why  do  you 
think  I've  struggled  and  raised  myself  except  to  keep 
equal  with  you?  Why  did  I  go  to  school  and  teach 
myself  and  make  money  enough  to  take  classes  in  Ap- 
plegate?  Just  for  you.  All  those  winter  afternoons 
when  I  drove  over  there  to  learn  things,  I  was  thinking 
of  you.  Do  you  remember  that  when  you  were  at 
school  in  Applegate,  you'd  tell  me  the  names  of  the 
books  you  read  so  that  I  might  get  them?" 

"Don't,"  she  cried  fiercely,  "don't  tell  me  those 
things,  for  I'll  never  believe  them  —  even  if  they 
are  true,  I'll  never  believe  them !  I'm  all  hard  and  bitter 
inside,  there's  no  softness  in  me.  If  I  went  on  my 
knees  and  prayed  to  love,  I  couldn't  do  it.  Oh,  Abel, 
there  isn't  any  love  in  my  heart!" 

"Do  you  remember  when  you  kissed  me?" 

"No,  I  have  forgotten." 

"It  was  only  three  weeks  ago." 

"Yes.  that  was  three  weeks  ago." 

The  light  died  slowly  out  of  his  eyes  as  he  looked  at 
her. 


THE  REVEREND  ORLANDO  MULLEN    141 

"When  you  speak  like  that  I  begin  to  wonder  if 
any  good  can  ever  come  to  us,"  he  returned.  "I've 
gone  on  breaking  my  heart  over  you  ever  since  you 
were  a  little  girl  in  short  dresses,  and  I  can't  remember 
that  I've  ever  had  anything  but  misery  from  you  in 
my  life.  It's  damnable  the  things  I've  stood  and 
yet  I've  always  forgotten  them  afterwards,  and  re 
membered  only  the  times  you  were  soft  and  gentle  and 
had  ceased  to  be  shrewish.  Nobody  on  earth  can  be 
softer  than  you,  Molly,  when  you  want  to,  and  it's 
your  softness,  after  all,  that  has  held  me  in  spite  of 
your  treatment.  Why,  your  mouth  was  like  a  flower 
when  I  kissed  you,  and  parted  and  clung  to  me " 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't  talk  about  it.  I  hate  to  hear 
such  things  after  they  are  over." 

"Such  things!"  He  stood  flicking  hopelessly  with 
a  small  branch  he  carried  at  the  carrot  flowers  in  the 
field.  "If  you  will  tell  me  honestly  that  you  were 
playing  with  me,  Molly,  I'll  give  you  up  this  minute, " 
he  said. 

The  colour  was  high  in  her  face  and  she  did  not 
look  at  him. 

"I  was  playing  with  you,  and  I  told  you  so  the  day 
afterwards,"  she  replied. 

"Yes,  but  you  didn't  mean  it.  I  can't  go  any 
further  because  this  is  Mr.  Jonathan's  land. " 

His  eyes  had  in  them  the  hurt  reproachful  look  of 
a  wounded  dog's,  and  his  voice  trembled  a  little. 

"I  meant  always  —  always  to  lead  you  on  until 
I  could  hurt  you  —  as  I  did  with  the  others  —  and  then 
throw  you  over. " 

"And  now  that  you  can  hurt  me,  you  throw  me 
over?"  he  asked. 


142  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

Without  speaking,  she  held  out  her  hand  for  the 
basket,  which  he  was  about  to  fling  from  him. 

"Then  I'll  never  forgive  you,  Molly,  so  help  me 
God,"  he  added  harshly;  and  turning  away  from  her, 
struck  out  across  the  pasture  in  the  direction  of  the 
mill. 

For  a  moment  she  stood  looking  after  him,  her 
lips  parted,  her  eyes  wide  and  bright  as  if  she  were 
asking  a  question. 

"I  am  hard  —  hard  and  cruel,"  she  thought  as 
she  went  slowly  up  the  witch-hazel  path  that  led  by 
the  Poplar  Spring,  "but  I  wonder  —  oh,  I  wonder  if 
I  treat  Abel  worst  because  I  like  him  best?" 


CHAPTER  XI 

A  FLIGHT    AND    AN    ENCOUNTER 

WHEN  Abel  had  flung  himself  over  the  fence,  he 
snatched  the  collar  from  his  neck  and  threw  it  away 
from  him  into  the  high  grass  of  the  meadow.  The 
act  was  symbolical  not  only  of  his  revolt  from  the 
power  of  love,  but,  in  a  larger  measure,  of  his  rebellion 
against  the  tyranny  of  convention.  Henceforth  his 
Sunday  clothes  might  hang  in  the  closet,  for  he  would 
never  again  bend  his  neck  to  the  starched  yoke  of 
custom.  Everything  had  been  for  Molly,  and  he 
was  done  with  Molly  forever.  Her  smiles  or  her 
frowns,  her  softness  or  her  cruelty,  would  make  no 
difference  to  him  in  the  future  —  for  had  not  Molly 
openly  implied  that  she  preferred  Mr.  Mullen?  So 
this  was  the  end  of  it  all  —  the  end  of  his  ambition, 
of  his  struggle  to  raise  himself,  of  his  battle  for  a  little 
learning  that  she  might  not  be  ashamed.  Lifting 
his  head  he  could  see  dimly  the  one  great  pine  that 
towered  on  the  hill  over  its  fellows,  and  he  resolved, 
in  the  bitterness  of  his  defeat,  that  he  would  sell  the 
whole  wood  to-morrow  in  Applegate.  He  tried  to 
think  clearly  —  to  tell  himself  that  he  had  never 
believed  in  her  —  that  he  had  always  known  she  would 
throw  him  over  at  the  last  —  but  the  agony  in  his 
heart  rose  in  his  throat,  and  he  felt  that  he  was  stifling 
in  the  open  air  of  the  pasture.  His  nature,  large, 

143 


144  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

impulsive,  scornful  of  small  complexities,  was  stripped 
bare  of  the  veneer  of  culture  by  which  its  simplicity 
had  been  overlaid.  At  the  instant  he  was  closer  to 
the  soil  beneath  his  feet  than  to  the  civilization  of  his 
race. 

As  he  neared  the  brook,  which  divided  his  pasture 
from  the  fields  belonging  to  Jordan's  Journey,  the 
sound  of  angry  voices  came  to  his  ears,  and  through 
the  bared  twigs  of  the  willows,  he  saw  Archie  and 
Jonathan  Gay  standing  a  little  apart,  while  the  boy 
made  threatening  gestures  with  a  small  switch  he 
carried. 

"I've  told  him  he  was  not  to  come  on  our  land  and 
he's  laughed  in  my  face!"  cried  Archie,  turning  to 
his  brother. 

"I'm  not  laughing,  I  merely  said  that  the  restriction 
was  absurd,"  replied  Jonathan  in  a  friendly  tone. 
"Why,  this  pasture  of  yours  juts  in  between  my  field 
and  the  road,  and  I'm  obliged  to  cross  it.  I  told 
you  before  I  was  awfully  sorry  about  that  quarrel 
when  I  first  came,  but  as  long  as  you  leave  my  birds 
alone,  you  may  walk  over  my  land  all  day  if  you  like 
and  I  shan't  care  a  copper." 

"Damn  your  birds!  I  don't  take  a  blow  from  any 
nan  without  paying  him  back,"  retorted  Archie. 

"Hold  your  tongue,  Archie,"  said  Abel  sternly. 
"It's  my  farm,  I  reckon,  and  I  can  manage  it.  I'm 
sorry,  Mr.  Jonathan,"  he  added,  "that  you  started 
the  trouble,  but  we  aren't  people  to  sit  down  tamely 
and  take  a  thrashing  from  you  just  because  you  happen 
to  own  Jordan's  Journey.  I'll  stand  by  Archie  be 
cause  he's  right,  though  if  he  were  not  right,  I'd  still 
stand  by  him  because  he's  my  brother.  The  best  we 


A  FLIGHT  AND  AN  ENCOUNTER  145 

can  do  is  to  keep  clear  of  each  other.  We  don't  go 
on  your  place  and  you'd  just  as  well  take  care  to  keep 
off  ours." 

A  frown  contracted  Gay's  brow,  while  he  glanced 
anxiously  over  his  shoulder  at  the  crooked  path  which 
led  in  the  direction  of  the  mill. 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  object  to  my  taking 
a  stroll  through  your  meadows?"  he  asked. 

"Why  on  earth  do  you  want  to  stroll  over  here  when 
you've  got  two  thousand  acres  on  every  other  blessed 
side  of  you?" 

When  the  other's  reply  came  there  was  a  curious 
hesitation  about  it. 

"Well,  a  man  has  his  fancies,  you  know.  I've 
taken  a  liking  to  this  path  through  the  willows." 

"All  the  same  I  warn  you  that  if  you  keep  it  up, 
you'll  very  likely  run  into  trouble.  If  Archie  sets 
the  dogs  on  you,  I'll  be  obliged  to  stand  by  him." 

Without  waiting  for  a  response,  he  put  his  hand  on 
the  boy's  shoulder,  and  pushed  him  over  the  brook 
into  the  path  on  the  opposite  side.  To  his  surprise 
Blossom,  dressed  as  though  for  church,  appeared 
there  at  the  instant. 

"Why,  where  in  thunder  are  you  going?"  he  de* 
manded,  releasing  Archie,  who  staggered  back  at  the 
sudden  withdrawal  of  the  powerful  grasp.  He  had 
always  known  that  his  niece  was  a  handsome  girl, 
but  the  bloom,  the  softness  of  her  beauty  came  to 
him  while  he  stood  there,  as  vividly  as  if  for  the  first 
time. 

"I  —  I — have  you  seen  grandma's  cat? "  she  returned 
after  the  breathless  suspense  of  a  minute. 

"No,   I   don't   think  you'll   find  her  down   there. 


146  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

Archie  and  Mr.  Jonathan  have  quarreled  loud  enough 
to  frighten  her  away." 

"Quarreled  again!"  she  said.  "Oh,  why  have  they 
quarreled  again?" 

"He  must  keep  off  our  place,"  replied  Archie, 
angrily.  "I  warned  him  I'll  set  the  dogs  on  him  the 
next  time  I  find  him  on  this  side  the  fence!" 

"How  —  how  can  you  be  so  uncivilized?"  she  re 
turned,  and  there  were  tears  in  her  eyes. 

"Uncivilized  or  not,  he'll  find  he  can't  split  my  lip 
open  for  nothing,"  growled  Archie,  like  a  sullen  child. 

"You'd  as  well  come  back  with  us,"  said  Abel, 
"the  cat  isn't  down  there  —  I'd  take  a  look  in  the 
mill." 

She  turned  her  face  away,  stooping  to  pluck  the 
withered  frond  of  a  fern  that  grew  in  the  path.  When 
she  looked  up  at  him  again  all  the  bloom  and  radiance 
had  flown. 

"Yes,  I'll  come  back  with  you,"  she  answered,  and 
falling  into  step  between  them,  walked  languidly  up 
the  hill  to  the  kitchen  garden  at  the  top.  In  his  own 
misery  Abel  was  hardly  aware  of  her,  and  he  heard 
as  from  a  distance,  Archie's  muttered  threats  against 
Gay,  and  Blossom's  palpitating  responses.  When 
they  reached  the  house,  Sarah's  yellow  and  white  cat 
squeezed  herself  through  the  door  and  came  purring 
toward  them. 

"Why,  the  cat's  got  back!"  exclaimed  Archie. 

"It  must  have  been  in  the  store-room  all  the  time," 
returned  Blossom  quickly.  "I  forgot  to  look  there. 
Now,  I  must  go  and  pour  out  the  buttermilk  for  dinner 
before  grandma  scolds  me." 

She  turned  away,  glanced  back  an  instant  later  to 


A  FLIGHT  AND  AN  ENCOUNTER  147 

make  sure  that  they  had  entered  the  house,  and  then 
gathering  up  her  Sunday  skirt  of  blue  Henrietta  cloth, 
started  in  a  rapid  run  back  along  the  path  to  the  wil 
lows.  When  she  reached  a  sheltered  nook,  formed 
by  a  lattice  of  boughs,  she  found  Gay  walking  impa 
tiently  back  and  forth,  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets 
and  the  anxious  frown  still  on  his  forehead.  At  sight 
of  her,  his  face  cleared  and  he  held  out  his  arms. 

"My  beauty!  —  I'd  just  given  you  up.  Five 
minutes  more  by  my  watch,  and  I  should  have  gone." 

"I  met  Abel  and  Archie  as  I  was  coming  and  they 
made  me  go  back  with  them,"  she  answered,  placing 
her  hand  on  her  bosom,  which  rose  and  fell  with  her 
fluttering  breath.  It  was  characteristic  of  their 
different  temperaments  that,  although  he  had  seen 
her  every  day  for  three  weeks,  he  still  met  her  with 
outstretched  arms,  which  she  still  evaded.  Since 
that  first  stolen  kiss,  she  had  held  off  from  him,  alluring 
yet  unapproachable,  and  this  gentle,  but  obstinate, 
resistance  had  inflamed  him  to  a  point  which  he  ad 
mitted,  in  the  cold  grey  mornings  before  he  had  break 
fasted,  to  have  become  positively  dangerous.  Ar 
dently  susceptible  to  beauty,  the  freedom  of  his  life 
had  bred  in  him  an  almost  equal  worship  of  the  unat 
tainable.  If  that  first  kiss  had  stirred  his  fancy, 
her  subsequent  repulse  had  established  her  influence. 
The  stubborn  virtue,  which  was  a  part  of  the  inherited 
fibre  of  her  race,  had  achieved  a  result  not  unworthy 
of  the  most  finished  coquette.  Against  his  desire 
for  possession  there  battled  the  instinctive  chastity 
that  was  woven  into  the  structure  of  Sarah  Revercomb's 
granddaughter.  Hardly  less  violent  than  the  natural 
impulse  against  which  it  warred,  it  gave  Blossom  an 


148  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

advantage,  which  the  obvious  weakness  of  her  heart 
had  helped  to  increase.  It  was  as  though  she  yearned 
toward  him  while  she  resisted  —  as  though  she  feared 
him  most  in  the  moment  that  she  repulsed  him. 

"Good  God!  how  beautiful  you  are  and  how  cold!" 
he  exclaimed. 

"I  am  not  cold.  How  can  you  say  so  when  you 
know  it  isn't  true?" 

"I've  been  waiting  here  an  hour,  half  dead  with 
impatience,  and  you  won't  so  much  as  let  me  touch 
you  for  a  reward." 

"I  can't  —  you  oughtn't  to  ask  me,  Mr.  Jonathan." 

"Could  a  single  kiss  hurt  you?     I  kissed  you  once." 

"It's  —  it's  because  you  kissed  me  once  that  you 
mustn't  kiss  me  again." 

"You  mean  you  didn't  like  it?" 

"What  makes  you  so  unkind?  You  know  it 
isn't  that." 

"Then  why  do  you  refuse?"  He  was  in  an  irritable 
humour,  and  this  irritation  showed  in  his  face,  in  his 
movements,  in  the  short,  abrupt  sound  of  his  words. 

"I  can't  let  you  do  it  because  —  because  I  didn't 
know  what  it  was  like  until  that  first  time,"  she  pro 
tested,  while  two  large  tears  rolled  from  her  eyes. 

Softened  by  her  confusion,  his  genial  smile  shone 
on  her  for  an  instant  before  the  gloom  returned  to  his 
features.  The  last  few  weeks  had  preyed  on  his  nerves 
until  he  told  himself  that  he  could  no  longer  control 
the  working  of  his  emotions.  The  solitude,  the  emp 
tiness  of  his  days,  the  restraint  put  upon  him  by  his 
invalid  mother  —  all  these  engendered  a  condition 
of  mind  in  which  any  transient  fancy  might  develop 
into  a  winged  fury  of  impulse.  There  were  times  when 


A  FLIGHT  AND  AN  ENCOUNTER  149 

his  desire  for  Blossom's  beauty  appeared  to  fill  the 
desolate  space,  and  he  hungered  and  thirsted  for  her 
actual  presence  at  his  side.  In  the  excitement  of  a 
great  city,  he  would  probably  have  forgotten  her  in  a 
month  after  their  first  meeting.  Here,  in  this  monoto 
nous  country,  there  was  nothing  for  him  but  to  brood 
over  each  trivial  detail  until  her  figure  stood  out  in 
his  imagination  edged  by  the  artificial  light  he  had 
created  around  it.  Her  beauty,  which  would  have 
been  noticeable  even  in  a  crowd,  became  goddess-like 
against  the  low  horizon  in  the  midst  of  the  November 
colours. 

"If  you  only  knew  how  I  suffer  from  you,  darling/* 
he  said,  "I  haven't  slept  for  nights  because  you  re 
fused  to  kiss  me." 

"  I  —  I  haven't  slept  either,"  she  faltered. 

"Because  of  me,  Blossoin?" 

"I  begin  to  think  and  it  makes  me  so  unhappy." 

"Oh,  damn  it!     Do  you  love  me,  Blossom?" 

"What  difference  does  it  make  whether  I  do  or 
not?" 

"It  makes  all  the  difference  under  Heaven!  Would 
you  like  to  love  me,  Blossom?" 

I  oughtn't  to  let  myself  think  of  it,  and  I  don't 
when  I  can  help  it." 

"But  can  you  help  it?     Tell  me,  can  you  help  it?" 

Turning  away  from  him,  she  cast  a  startled  glance 
under  the  willows  in  the  direction  of  the  house. 

"I  must  be  going  back.     They  will  miss  me." 

"Don't  you  think  I  shall  miss  you,  Beauty?" 

"I  don't  know.     I  haven't  thought." 

"If  you  knew  how  miserable  I'll  be  after  you  have 
left  me,  you'd  kiss  me  once  before  you  go." 


150  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

"Don't  ask  me,  I  can't  —  I  really  can't,  Mr.  Jona 
than." 

"Hang  Mr.  Jonathan  and  all  that  appertains  to 
him!  What's  to  become  of  me,  condemned  to  this 
solitude,  if  you  refuse  to  be  kind  to  me?  By  Jove,  if 
it  wasn't  for  my  mother,  I'd  ask  you  to  marry  me ! " 

"I  don't  want  to  marry  you,"  she  responded  haught 
ily,  and  completed  her  triumph.  Something  stronger 
than  passion  —  that  something  compounded  partly 
of  moral  fibre,  partly  of  a  phlegmatic  temperament, 
guided  her  at  the  critical  moment.  His  words 
had  been  casual,  but  her  reception  of  them  charged 
them  with  seriousness  almost  before  he  was  aware. 
A  passing  impulse  was  crystallized  by  the  coldness  of 
her  manner  into  a  permanent  desire. 

"If  I  were  free  to  do  it,  I'd  make  you  want  to," 
he  said. 

She  moved  from  him,  walking  rapidly  into  the  deeper 
shelter  of  the  willows.  The  autumn  sunlight,  shining 
through  the  leafless  boughs,  cast  a  delicate  netting  of 
shadows  over  the  brilliant  fairness  of  her  body.  He 
saw  the  rose  of  her  cheek  melting  into  the  warm  white 
ness  of  her  throat,  which  was  encircled  by  two  deli- 
ciously  infantile  creases  of  flesh.  To  look  at  her  led 
almost  inevitably  to  the  desire  to  touch  her. 

"Are  you  going  without  a  word  to  me,  Blossom?" 

"I  don't  know  what  to  say  —  you  never  seem  to 
believe  me." 

:<  You  know  well  enough  what  I  want  you  to  say  — 
but  you're  frozen  all  through,  that's  what's  the  mat 
ter." 

"Good-bye,  Mr.  Jonathan." 

"At  what  hour  to-morrow,  Blossom?" 


A  FLIGHT  AND  AN  ENCOUNTER         151 

She  shook  her  head,  softly  obstinate. 

"  I  mustn't  meet  you  again.  If  grandma  —  or 
any  of  the  others  found  out  they  would  never  forgive 
me  —  they  are  so  stern  and  straight.  I've  gone  too 
far  already,  and  besides " 

"Besides  what?" 

"You  make  me  feel  wicked  and  underhand." 

"Do  you  mean  that  you  can  walk  off  like  this  and 
never  see  me  again?" 

Tears  came  to  her  eyes.  "You  oughtn't  to  put  it 
like  that!" 

"But  that's  just  what  it  means.  Now,  darling, 
do  you  think  you  can  do  it?" 

"I  won't  think  —  but  I'll  have  to  do  it." 

His  nervous  irritability  became  suddenly  violent, 
and  the  muscles  of  his  face  contracted  as  if  from  a 
spasm  of  physical  pain. 

"Confound  it  all!  Why  shouldn't  I  marry  you, 
Blossom?"  he  burst  out.  "You're  the  most  beautiful 
woman  I've  ever  seen  and  you  look  every  inch  a  lady. 
If  it  wasn't  for  my  mother  I'd  pick  you  up  to-day 
and  carry  you  off  to  Washington." 

"Your  mother  would  never  give  in.  There's  no 
use  talking  about  it." 

"It  isn't  her  giving  in,  but  her  health.  You  see, 
she  has  heart  disease,  and  any  sudden  shock  brings 
on  one  of  these  terrible  attacks  that  may  kill  her. 
She  bears  everything  like  an  angel  —  I  never  heard  a 
complaint  from  her  in  my  life  —  not  even  when  she 
was  suffering  tortures  —  but  the  doctors  say  now 
that  another  failure  of  her  heart  would  be  fatal." 

"I  know,"  she  admitted  softly,  "they  said  that 
twenty  years  ago,  didn't  they?" 


152  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

"Well,  she's  been  on  her  back  almost  all  the  time 
during  those  twenty  years.  It's  wonderful  what 
she's  borne  —  her  angelic  patience.  And,  of  course, 
her  hopes  all  hang  on  me  now.  She's  got  nobody  else." 

"But  I  thought  Miss  Kesiah  was  so  devoted  to  her." 

"  Oh,  she  is  —  she  is,  but  Aunt  Kesiah  has  never 
really  understood  her.  Just  to  look  at  them,  you 
can  tell  how  different  they  are.  That's  how  it 
is,  Blossom  —  I'm  tied,  you  see  —  tied  hand  and 
foot." 

"Yes,  I  see,"  she  rejoined.  "Your  uncle  was  tied, 
too.  I've  heard  that  he  used  to  say  —  tied  with  a 
silk  string,  he  called  it." 

"You  wouldn't  have  me  murder  my  mother,  would 
you?"  he  demanded  irritably,  kicking  at  the  twisted 
root  of  a  willow. 

"Good-bye,  Mr.  Jonathan,"  she  responded  quietly, 
and  started  toward  the  house. 

"Wait  a  minute,  —  oh,  Blossom,  come  back!" 
he  entreated  —  but  without  pausing  she  ran  quickly 
up  the  crooked  path  under  the  netting  of  shadows. 

"So  that's  the  end,"  said  Gay  angrily.  "By  Jove, 
I'm  well  out  of  it,"  and  went  home  to  dinner.  "I 
won't  see  her  again,"  he  thought  as  he  entered  the 
house,  and  the  next  instant,  when  he  ascended  the 
staircase,  "I  never  saw  such  a  mouth  in  my  life.  It 
looks  as  if  it  would  melt  if  you  kissed  it  - 

The  dinner,  which  was  pompously  served  by  Abed- 
nego  and  a  younger  butler,  seemed  to  him  tasteless 
and  stale,  and  he  complained  querulously  of  a  bit  of 
cork  he  found  in  his  wine  glass.  His  mother,  supported 
by  cushions  in  her  chair  at  the  head  of  the  table,  to 
which  he  had  brought  her  in  his  arms,  lamented  his 


A  FLIGHT  AND  AN  ENCOUNTER  153 

lack  of  appetite,  and  inquired  tenderly  if  he  were 
suffering?  For  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  discovered 
that  he  was  extinguishing,  with  difficulty,  a  smoul 
dering  resentment  against  her.  Kesiah's  ugliness 
became  a  positive  affront  to  him,  and  he  felt  as  bit 
terly  toward  her  as  though  she  had  purposely  designed 
her  appearance  in  order  to  annoy  him.  The  wine 
she  drank  showed  immediately  in  her  face,  and  he 
determined  to  tell  his  mother  privately  that  she  must 
forbid  her  sister  to  drink  anything  but  water.  By  the 
dim  gilt  framed  mirror  above  the  mantel  he  discovered 
that  his  own  features  were  flushed,  also,  but  a  red 
face  was  not,  he  felt,  a  cause  of  compunction  to  one 
of  his  sex. 

"You  haven't  eaten  your  mutton,  dear,"  said  Mrs. 
Gay  anxiously.  "I  ordered  it  especially  because  you 
like  it.  Are  you  feeling  unwell?" 

"I'm  not  hungry,"  he  replied,  rather  crossly.  "This 
place  gets  on  my  nerves,  and  will  end  by  driving  me 
mad." 

"I  suppose  you'd  better  go  away,"  she  returned, 
plaintively  wounded.  "I  wouldn't  be  so  selfish  as 
to  want  to  keep  you  by  me  if  you  are  unhappy." 

"I  don't  want  to  leave  you,  mother  —  but,  I  ought 
to  get  back  to  the  stock  market.  It's  no  good  idling 
around  —  I  don't  think  I  was  cut  out  for  a  farmer." 

"Try  this  sherry.  Your  uncle  brought  it  from  Spain, 
and  it  was  buried  during  the  war." 

He  filled  his  glass,  drained  it  quickly,  and  with  an 
effort  recovered  his  temper. 

"Yes,  I'd  better  go,"  he  repeated,  and  knew  while 
he  spoke  that  he  could  not  leave  as  long  as  the  thought 
of  Blossom  tormented  him.  Swift  half  visions  of  her 


154  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

loveliness  —  of  certain  delectable  details  of  her  face 
or  figure  flitted  always  before  him.  He  saw  her  eyes, 
like  frosted  periwinkles  under  their  warm  white  lids, 
which  appeared  too  heavy  to  open  wide;  the  little 
brown  mole  that  played  up  and  down  when  she  laughed; 
and  the  soft,  babyish  creases  that  encircled  her  throat. 
Each  of  these  memories  set  his  heart  to  a  quicker 
beating  and  caused  a  warm  sensation,  like  the  caress 
of  a  burning  sun,  to  pass  over  his  body. 

"The  Revercombs  over  at  the  mill  are  kicking  up 
a  row,  mother,"  he  said  suddenly,  again  filling  his 
wine  glass  and  again  putting  it  down  empty,  "have 

they  any  sort  of  standing  in  the  county,  do  you  sup- 

?,, 
r^^. 

"I've  heard  they  call  themselves  connections  of  the 
Revercombs  higher  in  the  State,  dear  —  but  I  don't 
know  and  I've  never  come  into  contact  with  any  of 
the  country  people  about  here.  Kesiah  may  be  able 
to  tell  you." 

Until  then  neither  of  them  had  alluded  to  Kesiah, 
whom  they  accepted  by  ignoring  much  as  if  she  had 
been  one  of  the  familiar  pieces  of  furniture,  at  which 
they  never  glanced  because  they  were  so  firmly  con 
vinced  that  it  stood  in  its  place.  She  had  eaten  her 
dinner  with  the  relish  of  a  person  to  whom  food,  taken 
at  regular  hours  three  times  a  day,  has  become  the 
prime  consolation  in  life;  and  when  the  question  was 
put  to  her,  she  was  obliged  to  ask  them  to  repeat  it 
because  she  had  been  thoughtfully  regarding  a  dish 
of  baked  tomatoes  and  wondering  if  a  single  yielding 
to  temptation  would  increase  a  tendency  to  the  gout 
that  had  lately  developed. 

"What  do  you  know  of  the  Revercombs,  Kesiah? 


A  FLIGHT  AND  AN  ENCOUNTER  155 

Are  they  in  any  degree  above  the  common  people 
about  here?" 

"The  miller  is  a  rather  extraordinary  character, 
I  believe,"  she  answered,  lifting  the  spoon  out  of  the 
dish  of  tomatoes  as  it  was  handed  to  her,  and  then 
shaking  her  head  with  a  sigh  and  letting  it  fall.  "Mr. 
Chamberlayne  says  he  is  quite  well  educated,  but  the 
rest  of  them,  of  course,  are  very  primitive  and  plain. 
They  have  always  been  strait-laced  and  honest  and 
I  hear  that  the  mother  —  she  came  from  Piping  Tree 
and  was  one  of  the  Hawtreys  —  is  violently  opposed 
to  her  son's  marriage  with  Molly  Merryweather. 
There  is  a  daughter,  also,  who  is  said  to  be  beautiful 
though  rather  dull." 

"Yes,  I've  seen  the  girl,"  observed  Mrs.  Gay, 
"heavy  and  blond,  isn't  she?  The  mother,  I  should 
say,  is  decidedly  the  character  of  the  family.  She 
has  rather  terrible  convictions,  and  once  a  great  many 
years  ago,  she  came  over  here  —  forced  her  way  into 
my  sick-room  to  rebuke  me  about  the  behaviour  of 
the  servants  or  something.  Your  Uncle  Jonathan 
was  obliged  to  lead  her  out  and  pacify  her  —  she  was 
quite  upset,  I  remember.  By  the  way,  Kesiah,"  she 
pursued,  "haven't  I  heard  that  Mr.  Mullen  is  atten 
tive  to  the  daughter?  It  seems  a  pity,  for  he  is  quite 
a  superior  young  man  —  his  sermons  are  really  re 
markable,  and  he  might  easily  have  done  better." 

"Oh,  that  was  when  he  first  came  here,  Angela,  be 
fore  he  met  Molly  Merryweather.  It's  singular  the 
fascination  that  girl  possesses  for  the  men  around  here." 

Gay  laughed  shortly.  "Well,  it's  a  primitive  folk, 
isn't  it?"  he  said,  "and  gets  on  the  nerves  after  a 
while." 


156  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

Through  the  afternoon  he  was  restless  and  out  of 
humour,  tormented  less  by  the  memory  of  Blossom's 
face  than  by  the  little  brown  mole  on  her  cheek.  He 
resolved  a  dozen  times  a  day  that  he  would  not  see 
her,  and  in  the  very  act  of  resolving,  he  would  begin 
to  devise  means  of  waylaying  her  as  she  went  down 
to  the  store  or  passed  to  and  from  the  pasture. 
A  certain  sex  hatred,  which  is  closely  allied  to  the 
mere  physical  fact  of  love,  asserted  itself  at  times,  and 
he  raged  hotly  against  her  coldness,  her  indifference, 
against  the  very  remoteness  that  attracted  him.  Then 
he  would  soften  to  her,  and  with  the  softening  there 
came  always  the  longing  not  only  to  see,  but  to  touch 
her  —  to  breathe  her  breath,  to  lay  his  hand  on  her 
throat. 

The  next  day  he  went  to  the  willow  copse,  but  she 
did  not  come.  On  the  one  following,  he  took  down 
his  gun  and  started  out  to  shoot  partridges,  but  when 
the  hour  of  the  meeting  came,  he  found  himself  wan 
dering  over  the  fields  near  the  Revercombs*  pasture, 
with  his  eye  on  the  little  path  down  which  she  had 
come  that  rimy  October  morning.  The  third  after 
noon,  when  he  had  watched  for  her  in  a  fury  of  dis 
appointment,  he  ordered  his  horse  and  went  for  a 
gallop  down  the  sunken  road  to  the  mill.  At  the 
first  turn,  where  the  woods  opened  into  a  burned  out 
clearing,  he  came  suddenly  upon  her,  and  the  hunger 
at  his  heart  gave  place  to  a  delicious  sense  of  fulfilment. 

"Blossom,  how  can  you  torture  me  so?"  he  ex 
claimed  when  he  had  dismounted  at  her  side  and  flung 
his  arm  about  her. 

She  drew  slowly  away,  submissive  even  in  her  avoid 
ance. 


A  FLIGHT  AND  AN  ENCOUNTER  157 

"I  did  not  mean  to  torture  you  —  I'm  sorry," 
she  answered  humbly. 

"It's  come  to  this!"  he  burst  out,  "that  I  can't 
stand  it  another  week  without  losing  my  senses.  I've 
thought  till  I'm  distracted.  Blossom,  will  you  marry 
me?" 

"O  Mr.  Jonathan!"  she  gasped  while  her  breast 
fluttered  like  a  bird's. 

"Not  openly,  of  course  —  there's  my  mother  to 
think  of  —  but  I'll  take  you  to  Washington  —  we'll 
find  a  way  somehow.  Can't  you  arrange  to  go  to 
Applegate  for  a  day  or  two,  or  let  your  people  think 
you  have?" 

"I  can  —  yes  -  "  she  responded  in  the  same  troubled 
tone.  "I've  a  school  friend  living  there,  and  I  some 
times  spend  several  days  with  her." 

"Then  go  on  Saturday  —  no,  let's  see  —  this  is 
Tuesday.  Can  you  go  on  Friday,  darling?" 

"Perhaps.     I  can't  tell  —  I  think  so  —  I  must  see." 

As  he  drew  her  forward,  she  bent  toward  him,  still 
softly,  still  humbly,  and  an  instant  later,  his  arms 
were  about  her  and  his  lips  pressed  hers. 


CHAPTER  XH 

THE  DREAM  AND  THE  REAL 

THE  following  Friday  Abel  drove  Blossom  in  his 
gig  to  the  house  of  her  school  friend  in  Applegate, 
where  she  was  to  remain  for  a  week.  On  his  way 
home  he  stopped  at  the  store  for  a  bottle  of  harness 
oil,  and  catching  the  red  glow  of  the  fire  beyond  the 
threshold  of  the  public  room,  he  went  in  for  a  moment 
to  ask  old  Adam  Doolittle  about  a  supply  of  hominy 
meal  he  had  ready  for  him  at  the  mill.  As  the  ancient 
man  crouched  over  the  fire,  with  his  bent  hands  out 
stretched  and  his  few  silvery  hairs  rising  in  the  warmth, 
his  profile  showed  with  the  exaggeration  of  a  twelfth 
century  grotesque,  the  features  so  distorted  by  the 
quivering  shadows  that  his  beaked  nose  appeared  to 
rest  in  the  crescent-shaped  silhouette  of  his  chin. 
His  mouth  was  open,  and  from  time  to  time  he  shook 
his  head  and  muttered  to  himself  in  an  undertone  — 
a  habit  he  had  fallen  into  during  the  monotonous 
stretches  of  Mr.  Mullen's  sermons.  Across  from  him 
sat  Jim  Halloween,  and  in  the  middle  of  the  hearth, 
Solomon  Hatch  stood  wiping  the  frost  from  his  face 
with  a  red  cotton  handkerchief. 

"It's  time  you  were  thinkin'  about  goin'  home,  I 
reckon,  old  Adam,"  remarked  Mrs.  Bottom.  "  You've 
had  yo '  two  full  glasses  of  cider  an '  it  ain't  proper  for  a 
man  of  yo'  years  to  be  knockin '  around  arter  dark.  This 
or'nary  is  goin'  to  be  kept  decent  as  long  as  I  keep  it." 

158 


THE  DREAM  AND  THE  REAL      159 

"To  be  sure,  to  be  sure,"  replied  old  Adam,  nodding 
cheerfully  at  the  fire,  "I  ain't  all  I  once  was  except 
in  the  matter  of  corn-shuckin'  —  an '  a  cold-snap 
like  this  goes  clean  to  the  bones  when  they  ain't 
covered.'5 

"Did  you  carry  any  of  yo'  winesaps  into  Applegate, 
Abel?"  inquired  Jim  Halloween.  "I'm  savin'  mine 
till  Christmas,  when  the  prices  will  take  a  jump." 

"No,  I  only  drove  Blossom  over.  She's  to  spend  a 
few  days  in  town." 

"Mr.  Jonathan's  gone  off,  too,  I  see,"  observed 
Solomon.  "Ke  went  by  at  the  top  of  his  speed  while 
I  was  haulm '  timber  this  mornin'.  Thar's  bad  blood 
still  betwixt  you  an'  him,  ain't  thar,  Abel  ?" 

"Oh,  I'm  not  seekin'  a  quarrel.  The  trouble  is 
in  Archie's  hands  an'  he'll  have  to  keep  it  there." 

"Well,  he's  a  fine  shape  of  a  man,"  declared  Betsey 
Bottom.  "Some  women  try  to  make  out  that  they 
ain't  got  an  eye  for  the  shape  as  long  as  the  sense  is 
all  square  and  solid  —  but  I  ain't  never  been  one  of 
'em.  Sense  is  all  right  in  its  place,  no  doubt,  but 
thar 're  times  when  a  fine  figger  is  mo'  convincin' 
than  any  argyment  that  ever  was  uttered." 

"It's  a  thing  that  beats  me,"  pondered  Solomon 
Hatch,  "why  a  sensible  woman  should  care  how  a  man 
is  made  on  the  outside  so  long  as  the  proper  stuffin' 
is  inside  of  him.  With  a  man  now,  of  course,  it  is 
different,  seein'  as  natur  made  'em  with  a  sharp  eye 
for  beauty  in  the  opposite  sex,  an'  they're  all  for 
natur  an'  al'ays  have  been.  But  I'll  be  blest  if  I 
can  understand  it  in  women." 

"Well,  I've  noticed  that  they  have  a  particular 
likin'  for  the  worthless  over  the  hardworkin'  sort," 


160  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

remarked  old  Adam,  "an'  when  it  comes  to  that, 
I've  known  a  woman  to  git  clear  set  against  a 
man  on  o'count  of  nothin'  bigger  than  a  chaw  of 
tobaccy." 

"It's  the  way  of  the  sex,"  said  Solomon  Hatch. 
"When  I  was  courtin'  my  wife  I  was  obleeged  to  prom 
ise  her  I'd  give  up  the  habit  bef o '  she'd  keep  company 
with  me." 

"An*  you  began  agin,  I  low,  after  the  ceremony 
was  spoken." 

"To  be  sure —  'twas  a  courtin'  promise,  not  a 
real  one." 

"It  happened  the  same  in  my  case,  some  sixty  years 
or  mo'  ago,"  said  old  Adam.  "Thar  was  two  of  us 
arter  Minnie  —  for  the  matter  of  that,  it  never  en 
tered  my  head  to  court  her  till  I  saw  that  Jacob  Hal 
loween  —  yo '  grandpa,  Jim  —  had  begun  to  git  soft 
on  her.  It's  safer  to  trust  another  man's  jedgment 
than  yo'  own  I  said  to  myself,  an'  I  started  into  the 
race.  Well,  Jacob  was  the  pious,  churchgoin'  sort 
that  she  liked  —  but  he  would  chaw  in  season  an ' 
out  of  it  —  thar  was  some  as  said  he  chawed  even 
when  he  was  sleepin '  —  an '  a  woman  so  out  an '  out 
with  tobaccy  you  never  set  eyes  on.  Sez  she  to  me, 
'Adam,  you  will  give  up  the  weed  for  me,  won't  you?' 
An'  sez  I,  'Why,  to  be  sartin  sure,  I  will,'  meanin', 
of  course,  while  I  was  courtin'.  Then  she  answered, 
4 Well,  he's  a  Christian  an'  a  churchgoer  an'  you  ain't, 
but  if  he  was  the  Angel  Gabriel  himself,  Adam,  an' 
was  a  chawer,  I  wouldn't  marry  him.  The  men  may 
make  their  habits,  Adam,'  she  said,  'but  it  takes  "the 
women  to  break  'em.'  Lord!  Lord!  durin'  that  court- 
in'  season  my  mouth  would  water  so  for  a  wad  of 


THE  DREAM  AND  THE  REAL  161 

tobaccy  that  I'd  think  my  tongue  was  goin'  to  ketch 
fire."  ' 

"I  shouldn't  like  to  have  stood  in  yo'  shoes  when 
you  began  agin,"  remarked  Betsey  Bottom. 

"Oh,  she  larned,  she  lamed,"  chuckled  the  elder, 
knocking  the  ashes  out  of  his  pipe  on  the  hearth  and 
then  treading  them  under  his  boot.  "Tis  amazin' 
what  a  deal  of  larnin'  women  have  to  do  arter  they're 
married." 

"If  they'd  done  it  befo'  thar's  precious  few  of  'em 
that  would  ever  set  foot  into  the  estate!"  retorted 
Betsey.  "Thar  ain't  many  men  that  are  worth  the 
havin'  when  you  git  close  up  to  'em.  Every  inch 
of  distance  betwixt  em'  is  an  inch  added  to  thar  at 
tractions." 

"Now,  I've  noticed  that  in  my  own  case,"  observed 
Jim  Halloween  sadly,  "no  woman  yet  has  ever  let 
me  come  within  kissin '  distance  —  the  nearer  I  git, 
the  further  an'  further  they  edges  away.  It's  the 
curse  of  my  luck,  I  reckon,  for  it  seems  as  if  I 
never  open  my  mouth  to  propose  that  I  don't  put  my 
foot  in  it." 

"You  may  comfort  yo'self  with  the  thought  that 
it  runs  in  yo'  family,"  rejoined  old  Adam.  "'Tis 
a  contrariness  of  natur  for  wrhich  you're  not  to  be 
held  accountable.  I  remember  yo'  grandpa,  that 
same  Jacob,  tellin'  me  once  that  he  never  sot  out 
to  make  love  that  his  tongue  didn't  take  a  twist  un 
beknownst  to  him,  an'  to  his  surprise,  thar'd  roll 
off  'turnips'  an'  'carrots'  instid  of  terms  of  endear 
ment.  Now,  with  me  'twas  quite  opposite,  for  my 
tongue  was  al'ays  quicker  than  my  heart  in  the  matter 
of  courtm '.  It  used  to  go  click!  click!  quite  without 


162  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

my    willin'   it   whenever   my   eyes   lit   on   a   pretty 


woman." 


"Ah,  you  were  a  gay  young  bird,  but  it's  over  now," 
commented  Solomon. 

"I  ain't  regrettin'  it  since  I've  lived  long  enough 
to  repent  of  it,"  responded  the  ancient  sinner. 

"What  worries  me,"  said  young  Adam,  pursuing 
his  habitual  train  of  despondency,  "is  that  my  life  is 
just  one  long  repentance  with  naught  in  it  worth  re- 
pentin'  of.  'Tain't  for  lack  of  ch'ice  I've  never  tasted, 
but  for  lack  of  opportunity." 

"Well,  thar's  some  that  even  sinners  can't  suffer," 
commented  his  father,  "You  are  short  of  words, 
miller." 

"I  was  thinkin',"  replied  Abel  roughly,  draining 
his  glass,  and  rising  to  his  feet  while  he  drew  on  his 
sheepskin  gloves,  "that  when  the  thought  of  a  woman 
once  gets  into  the  brain  it's  worse  than  a  maggot." 

"The  best  way  is  to  get  her,"  retorted  Solomon, 
"but  that  ain't  so  easy  a  matter  as  it  looks,  unless 
you  are  a  parson.  Was  thar  ever  a  parson,  Mr.  Doo- 
little,  that  couldn't  get  married  as  often  as  he'd  take 
the  notion?" 

"Thar  may  be  sech,  but  I've  never  seed  him  an' 
never  heard  on  him,"  responded  old  Adam.  "Tis 
kind  of  professional  work  with  'em  an'  they've  got 
the  advantage  of  the  rest  of  us  bein'  so  used  to  pulpit 
speakin'." 

"I  suppose  our  Mr.  Mullen  might  have  whomsoever 
he'd  set  his  eyes  on,"  pursued  Solomon. 

"Without  a  doubt  he  might.  If  all  else  failed  him 
he'd  but  to  ax  her  in  his  pulpit  gown  an'  his  prayin' 
voice,  an'  thar'd  be  no  gainsayin'  him  for  a  female. 


THE  DREAM  AND  THE  REAL      163 

Let  him  boom  out  'Dearly  Beloved/  as  he  does  in 
church  an'  ten  chances  to  one  she'd  answer  'Amen* 
just  out  of  the  habit.  I'm  a  bold  man,  suh,  an'  I've 
al'ays  been,  but  I  ain't  one  to  stand  up  ag'inst  a 
preacher  when  thar's  a  woman  in  the  race." 

Wrapping  his  blue  knitted  comforter  about  his 
throat,  Abel  nodded  good-humoredly  to  the  group, 
and  went  out  to  his  gig,  which  he  had  left  under  a 
shed  in  the  yard.  As  he  removed  the  blanket  from 
his  mare,  his  mind  dwelt  stubbornly  on  the  remarks 
old  Adam  had  let  fall  concerning  clergymen  and  women. 
He  had  already  convinced  himself  that  the  Reverend 
Mr.  Mullen  was  the  object  of  Molly's  preference,  and 
his  nature  was  big  enough  to  rejoice  that  she  should 
have  chosen  so  good  a  man.  At  least,  if  this  were 
true,  Jonathan  Gay  would  not  be  his  rival. 

It  was  the  season  of  the  year  when  the  sunny  days 
gave  place  to  frosty  nights,  and  all  the  changes  of 
the  autumn  —  the  reddening  of  the  fruit,  the  ripening 
of  the  nuts,  the  falling  of  the  leaves  —  appeared  to 
occur  in  the  hours  between  sunset  and  sunrise.  A  thin 
and  wTatery  moon  shed  a  spectral  light  over  the  mead 
ows,  wrhich  seemed  to  float  midwray  betwreen  the  ashen 
band  of  the  road  and  the  jagged  tops  of  the  pines  on 
the  horizon.  There  was  no  wind,  and  the  few  re 
maining  leaves  on  the  trees  looked  as  if  they  were  cut 
out  of  velvet.  The  promise  of  a  hoar-frost  was  in 
the  air  —  and  a  silver  veil  lay  already  over  the  distance. 

When  he  had  turned  into  the  branch  road  that 
led  from  the  turnpike  to  the  mill,  a  gig  passed  him, 
driven  rapidly,  and  Reuben  Merryweather  called 
"good-night,"  in  his  friendly  voice.  An  instant 
later  a  spot  of  white  in  the  road  caught  Abel's  glance, 


164  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

and  alighting,  he  picked  up  a  knitted  scarf,  which 
he  recognized  even  in  the  moonlight  as  one  that  Molly 
had  worn.  Looking  back  he  saw  that  the  other  gig  had 
stopped  at  the  turnpike,  and  as  he  hastened  toward 
it  with  the  scarf  in  his  hand,  he  was  rewarded 
by  a  flash  of  bright  eyes  from  a  muffled  figure  at  Reu 
ben's  side. 

"I  found  this  in  the  road,"  he  said,  "y°u  must  have 
dropped  it." 

"Yes,  it  fell  out  —  thank  you,"  she  answered,  and 
it  seemed  to  him  that  her  hand  lingered  an  instant 
in  his  before  it  was  withdrawn  and  buried  beneath 
the  rugs. 

The  pressure  remained  with  him,  and  a  little  later 
as  he  drove  over  the  frosted  roads,  he  could  still  feel, 
as  in  a  dream,  the  soft,  clinging  touch  of  her  fingers. 
Essentially  an  idealist,  his  character  was  the  result 
of  a  veneering  of  insufficient  culture  on  a  groundwork 
of  raw  impulse.  People  and  objects  appeared  to  him 
less  through  forms  of  thought  than  through  colours 
of  the  emotions;  and  he  saw  them  out  of  relation  be 
cause  he  saw  them  under  different  conditions  from  those 
that  hold  sway  over  this  planet.  The  world  he  moved  in 
was  peopled  by  a  race  of  beings  that  acted  under  ideal 
laws  and  measured  up  to  an  impossible  standard; 
and  this  mixture  of  rustic  ignorance  and  religious  fer 
vour  had  endowed  him  with  a  power  of  sacrifice  in  large 
matters,  while  it  rendered  him  intolerant  of  smaller 
weaknesses.  It  was  characteristic  of  the  man  that  he 
should  have  arranged  for  Molly  in  his  thoughts,  and 
at  the  cost  of  great  suffering  to  himself,  a  happiness 
that  was  suited  to  the  ideal  figure  rather  than  to  the 
living  woman. 


THE  DREAM  AND  THE  REAL      165 

When  he  entered  the  kitchen,  after  putting  the  mare 
into  her  stall,  the  familiar  room,  with  its  comfortable 
warmth,  dragged  him  back  into  a  reality  in  which  the 
dominating  spirit  was  Sarah  Revercomb.  Even  his 
aching  heart  seemed  to  recognize  her  authority,  and 
to  obtrude  itself  with  a  sense  of  embarrassment  into 
surroundings  where  all  mental  maladies  were  outlawed. 
She  was  on  her  knees  busily  sorting  a  pile  of  sweet 
potatoes,  which  she  suspected  of  having  been  frost 
bitten;  and  by  sheer  force  of  character,  she  managed 
to  convince  the  despairing  lover  that  a  frost-bitten 
potato  was  a  more  substantial  fact  than  a  broken 
heart. 

"I  declar'  if  the  last  one  of  'em  ain't  specked  !  I 
knew  'twould  be  so  when  they  was  left  out  thar  in 
the  smoke-house  that  cold  spell.  Abel,  all  those 
sweet  potatoes  you  left  out  in  the  smoke-house  have 
been  nipped." 

"Well,  I  don't  care  a  hang!"  retorted  Abel,  as  he 
unwrapped  his  muffier.  "If  it  isn't  one  thing,  it's 
another.  You're  enough  to  drive  a  sober  man  to 
drink." 

"If  you  don't  care,  I'd  like  to  know  who  ought  to," 
responded  Sarah,  whose  principal  weapon  in  an  argu 
ment  was  the  fact  that  she  was  always  the  injured 
person.  "It  seems  that  'twas  all  yo'  fault  since  you 
put  'em  thar." 

"You'd  better  give  him  some  supper  —  he  looks 
almost  played  out,"  observed  Abner  from  a  corner  of 
the  hearth,  where  he  sat  smoking  with  his  head  hanging 
on  his  chest. 

Though  she  might  harrow  her  son's  soul,  Sarah  was 
incapable  of  denying  him  food,  so  rising  from  her 


166  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

knees,  she  unpinned  her  skirt,  and  brought  him  coffee 
and  broiled  herring  from  the  stove  where  they  had  been 
keeping  hot. 

"Where's  Archie?"  asked  Abel,  while  she  plied 
him  with  corn  muffins. 

"  Courtin',  I  reckon,  though  he'd  best  be  down  yon 
der  in  the  swamp  settin'  those  old  hare  traps.  I 
never  saw  sech  courtin'  as  you  all's  anyhow,"  she  con 
cluded.  "It  don't  seem  to  lead  nowhar,  nor  to  end 
in  nothin'  except  itself.  That's  what  this  here  ever- 
lastin '  education  has  done  for  you,  Abel  —  if  you  hadn't 
had  those  books  to  give  you  something  to  think  about, 
you'd  have  been  married  an'  settled  a  long  time  befo' 
now.  Yo'  grandpa  over  thar  was  steddyin'  about 
raisin'  a  family  before  he  was  twenty." 

On  either  side  of  the  stove,  grandfather  and  grand 
mother  nodded  like  an  ancient  Punch  and  Judy  who 
were  at  peace  only  when  they  slept.  Grandfather's 
pipe  had  gone  out  in  his  hand,  and  from  grandmother's 
lap  a  ball  of  crimson  yarn  had  rolled  on  the  rag  carpet 
before  the  fire.  Twenty  years  ago  she  had  begun 
knitting  an  enormous  coverlet  in  bright  coloured 
squares,  and  it  was  still  unfinished,  though  the  strips, 
packed  away  in  camphor,  filled  a  chest  in  Sarah's 
store  closet. 

"You  wouldn't  like  any  girl  I'd  marry,"  he  retorted 
with  a  feeble  attempt  at  mirth.  "If  I  tried  to  put 
your  advice  into  practice  there'd  be  trouble  as  sure  as 
shot." 

"No,  thar  wouldn't  —  not  if  I  picked  her  out," 
she  returned. 

"Great  Scott!  Won't  you  let  me  choose  my  own 
wife  even?"  he  exclaimed,  with  a  laugh  in  which  there 


THE  DREAM  AND  THE  REAL  167 

was  an  ironic  humour.  The  soft  pressure  of  Molly's 
fingers  was  still  on  his  hand,  and  he  saw  her  face  look 
ing  up  at  him,  gentle  and  beseeching,  as  she  had  looked 
when  she  offered  her  lips  to  his  kiss.  Above  the 
yearning  of  his  heart  there  rose  now  the  decision  of 
his  judgment  —  and  this  had  surrendered  her  to  Mr. 
Mullen!  Some  rigid  strain  of  morality,  inherited 
from  Sarah  and  therefore  continually  at  war  with  her, 
caused  him  to  torture  himself  into  a  mental  recogni 
tion  that  her  choice  was  for  the  best. 

"That  man  never  walked  that  had  sense  enough  to 
pick  out  a  wife,"  rejoined  Sarah.  "To  think  of  a 
great  hulkin'  fellow  like  you  losin'  yo'  sense  over  a 
half  mad  will-o'-the-wisp  that  don't  even  come  of 
decent  people.  If  she  hadn't  had  eyes  as  big  as  sau 
cers,  do  you  reckon  you'd  ever  have  turned  twice 
to  look  at  her?" 

"For  God's  sake  don't  talk  about  her  —  she's  not 
going  to  marry  me,"  he  responded,  and  the  admission 
of  the  truth  he  had  so  often  repeated  in  his  own  mind 
caused  a  pang  of  disbelief. 

"I'd  like  to  know  why  she  ain't?"  snorted  Sarah 
indignantly,  "does  she  think  she's  goin'  to  get  a  better 
catch  in  this  neighbourhood?" 

"Oh,  it's  all  one.  She  doesn't  want  to,  that  is 
enough." 

"Well,  she's  a  fool  if  she  doesn't  want  to,  an'  I'll 
say  it  to  her  face.  If  thar's  a  better  lookin '  man  around 
here,  I'd  like  to  see  him,  or  a  better  worker.  What 
have  the  Merryweathers  to  be  so  set  up  about,  I'd 
like  to  know?  And  that  gal  without  even  a  father 
to  her  name  that  she  can  call  her  own!" 

"You  mustn't  —  I  won't  stand  it  any  longer." 


168  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

"Well,  it's  for  yo'  good,  I  reckon.  If  yo'  own 
mother  can't  take  yo'  side,  I'd  like  to  know  who's 
goin'  to  do  it?" 

"I  don't  want  anybody  to  take  my  side.  She's 
got  a  right  not  to  marry  me." 

"I  ain't  sayin'  she  ain't,  an*  it's  a  mighty  good 
thing  for  you  that  she's  sech  a  plum  fool  as  not  to 
want  to.  'Twould  be  the  worst  news  I'd  ever  heard 
if  she'd  been  minded  to  have  you.  I'd  move  heaven 
an'  earth  to  keep  you  from  marryin'  her,  an'  if  the 
good  Lord  has  done  it  instead  of  me,  I'm  thankful 
enough  to  Him  for  His  trouble." 

Rising  from  the  table,  Abel  pushed  his  untasted 
food  aside  with  a  gesture  of  loathing.  A  week  ago 
he  had  been  interested  in  the  minor  details  of  life; 
to-night  he  felt  that  they  bored  him  profoundly. 

"If  you  knew  what  you  were  saying  you'd  hold 
your  tongue,"  he  retorted  angrily. 

"Ain't  you  goin'  to  eat  yo'  supper?"  inquired 
Sarah  anxiously,  "that  herrin'  is  real  nice  and  brown." 

"I  don't  want  anything.     I'm  not  hungry." 

"Mebbe  you'd  like  one  of  the  brandied  peaches 
I'm  savin'  for  Christmas?" 

"No,  I'm  dead  beat.     I'll  go  up  to  sleep  pretty  soon." 

"Do  you  want  a  fire?     I  can  lay  one  in  a  minute." 

He  shook  his  head,  not  impatiently,  but  as  one  to 
whom  brandied  peaches  and  wood  fires  are  matters 
of  complete  indifference. 

"I've  got  to  see  about  something  in  the  stable 
first.  Then  I'll  go  to  bed." 

Taking  down  a  lantern  from  a  nail  by  the  door,  he 
went  out,  as  was  his  nightly  habit,  to  look  at  his  grey 
mare  Hannah.  When  he  came  in  again  and  stumbled 


THE  DREAM  AND  THE  REAL  169 

up  the  narrow  staircase  to  his  room,  he  found  that 
Sarah  had  been  before  him  and  kindled  a  blaze  from 
resinous  pine  on  the  two  bricks  in  the  fireplace.  At 
the  sound  of  his  step,  she  entered  with  an  armful  of 
pine  boughs,  which  she  tossed  to  the  flames. 

"I  reckon  the  cracklin'  will  make  you  feel  mo* 
comfortable,"  she  observed.  "Thar  ain't  anything 
like  a  light  wood  fire  to  drive  away  the  misery." 

"It  does  sound  friendly,"  he  responded. 

For  a  moment  she  hesitated,  groping  apparently 
for  some  topic  of  conversation  which  would  divert 
his  mind  from  the  one  subject  that  engrossed  him. 

"Archie's  just  come  in,"  she  remarked  at  last, 
"an'  he  walked  up  with  old  Uncle  Toby,  who  said  he'd 
seen  a  ha'nt  in  the  dusk  over  at  Poplar  Spring.  I 
don't  see  how  Mrs.  Gay  an'  Miss  Kesiah  can  endure 
to  live  thar." 

"Oh,  they're  just  darkies'  tales  —  nobody  believes 
in  them  any  more  than  in  conjuring  and  witches." 

"That's  true,  I  reckon,  but  I  shouldn't  like  to  live 
over  thar  all  the  same.  They  say  old  Mr.  Jonathan 
comes  out  of  his  grave  and  walks  whenever  one  of 
'em  is  to  be  buried  or  married." 

"Nobody's  dead  that  I've  heard  of,  and  I  don't 
suppose  either  Mr.  Jonathan  or  Miss  Kesiah  are 
thinking  of  getting  married." 

"Well,  I  s'pose  so  —  but  I'm  mighty  glad  he  ain't 
taken  the  notion  to  walk  around  here.  I  don't  be 
lieve  in  ha'nts,  but  I  ain't  got  no  use  for  'em." 

She  went  out,  closing  the  door  after  her;  and  drop 
ping  into  a  chair  by  the  fire,  he  buried  his  face  in  his 
hands,  while  he  vowed  in  his  heart  that  he  would  stop 
thinking  of  Molly. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

BY    THE   MILL-RACE 

A  WARM,  though  hazy,  sun  followed  the  sharp  night, 
and  only  the  blackened  and  damaged  plants  in  the 
yard  bore  witness  to  the  frost,  which  had  melted  to 
the  semblance  of  rain  on  the  grass.  On  the  dappled 
boughs  of  the  sycamore  by  the  mill-race  several  bronze 
leaves  hung  limp  and  motionless,  as  if  they  were  at 
tached  by  silken  threads  to  the  stems,  and  the  coating 
of  moss  on  the  revolving  wheel  shone  like  green  enamel 
on  a  groundwork  of  ebony.  The  white  mist,  which 
had  wrapped  the  landscape  at  dawn,  still  lay  in  the 
hollows  of  the  pasture,  from  which  it  floated  up  as 
the  day  advanced  to  dissolve  in  shining  moisture  upon 
the  hillside.  There  was  a  keen  autumn  tang  in  the 
air  —  a  mingling  of  rotting  leaves,  of  crushed  wine- 
saps,  of  drying  sassafras.  As  Abel  passed  from  the 
house  to  the  mill,  his  gaze  rested  on  a  golden  hickory 
tree  near  the  road,  where  a  grey  squirrel  sported 
merrily  under  the  branches.  Like  most  of  his  neigh 
bours,  he  had  drawn  his  weather  predictions  from  the 
habits  of  wild  creatures,  and  had  decided  that  it  would 
be  an  open  winter  because  the  squirrels  had  left  the 
larger  part  of  the  nuts  ungarnered. 

At  the  door  of  the  mill,  as  he  turned  the  big  rusty 
key  in  the  lock,  he  told  himself  doggedly  that  since  he 
was  not  to  have  Molly,  the  only  sensible  thing  was  to 
surrender  the  thought  of  her.  While  he  started  a 

170 


BY  THE  MILL-RACE  171 

blaze  in  the  stove,  and  swept  the  floor  with  the  broom- 
sedge  broom  he  kept  for  the  purpose,  he  forced  his  mind 
to  duell  on  the  sacks  of  grist  that  stood  ready  for 
grind  Jig.  The  fox-hound  puppy,  Moses,  had  followed 
him  from  the  house,  and  sat  now  suspiciously  watching 
a  robin  that  hopped  warily  in  the  band  of  sunlight 
over  the  threshold.  The  robin  was  in  search  of  a  few 
grains  of  buckwheat  which  had  dropped  from  a  meas 
ure,  and  the  puppy  had  determined  that,  although  he 
was  unable  to  eat  the  buckwheat  himself,  he  would 
endeavour  to  prevent  the  robin  from  doing  so.  So  in 
tent  was  he  upon  this  resolve,  that  he  forgot  to  bark  at 
an  old  negro,  who  drove  up  presently  in  an  ancient  gig, 
the  harness  of  which  was  tied  on  a  decrepit  mule  with 
pieces  of  rope.  The  negro  had  left  some  corn  to  be 
ground,  and  as  he  took  his  sack  of  meal  from  the 
miller,  he  let  fall  a  few  lamentations  on  the  general 
forlorn  state  of  human  nature. 

"Dish  yer  livin'  is  moughty  hard,  marster,  but  I 
reckon  we'se  all  got  ter  come  ter  hit." 

"Well,  you  manage  to  raise  a  little  good  corn  any 
way,  so  you  ought  to  be  thankful  instead  of  com 
plaining." 

"Dar  ain'  nuttin'  'tall  ter  be  thankful  fur  in  dat,  suh, 
case  de  Lawd  He  ain'  had  no  mo'  ter  do  wid  dat  ar 
co'n  den  ole  Marse  Hawtrey  way  over  yonder  at 
Pipin'  Tree.  I  jes'  ris  dat  ar  co'n  wid  my  own  han* 
right  down  de  road  at  my  font  do',  an'  po'd  de  water 
on  hit  outer  de  pump  at  my  back  un.  I'se  monst'ous 
glad  ter  praise  de  Lawd  fur  what  He  done  done,  but  I 
ain'  gwine  ter  gin  'im  credit  fur  de  wuk  er  my  own  fis* 
en  foot." 

"Are  you  going  by  Jordan's  Journey,  uncle?     I'd 


172  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

like  to  send  Reuben  Merryweather's  buckwheat  to 
him." 

"Naw,  boss,  I  ain't  a-gwine  by  dar,  caze  dat  ar 
Jerdan's  Jerney  ain  got  a  good  name  ter  my  years. 
I  ain't  a-feared  er  ha'nts  by  daylight,  but  Fse  monst- 
'ous  feared  er  badness  day  er  nightime,  en  hit  sutney 
do  pear  ter  me  like  de  badness  er  ole  Marse  Jonathan 
done  got  in  de  a'r  er  dat  ar  Jerdan's  Jerney.  Hit's 
ha'nted  by  badness,  dat's  what  'tis,  en  dar  ain  nobody 
cep'n  Gawd  A'moughty  Hisse'f  dat  kin  lay  badness." 

He  went  out,  stooping  under  the  weight  of  his  bag, 
and  picking  up  a  grey  turkey's  wing  from  the  ledge, 
Abel  began  brushing  out  the  valve  of  the  mill,  in 
which  the  meal  had  grown  heavy  from  dampness. 

"The  truth  is,  Moses,"  he  remarked,  "you  are  a  fool 
to  want  what  you  can't  have  in  this  life."  The  puppy 
looked  up  at  him  inquiringly,  its  long  ears  flapping 
about  its  soft  foolish  face.  "But  I  reckon  we're  all 
fools,  when  it  comes  to  that." 

When  the  grinding  was  over  for  the  day,  he  shut 
down  the  mill,  and  calling  Moses  to  heel,  went  out  on 
the  old  mill-race,  where  the  upper  gate  was  locked  by 
a  crude  wooden  spar  known  as  the  "key."  He  was 
standing  under  the  sycamore,  with  this  implement 
in  his  hand,  when  he  discerned  the  figure  of  Molly 
approaching  slowly  amid  the  feathery  white  pollen  which 
lay  in  patches  of  delicate  bloom  over  the  sorrel  waste 
of  the  broomsedge.  Without  moving  he  waited  until 
she  had  crossed  the  log  and  stood  looking  up  at  him  from 
the  near  side  of  the  stream. 

"Abel,  are  you  still  angry  with  me?"  she  asked, 
smiling. 

Dropping  the  key  into  the  lock,  he  walked  slowly 


BY  THE  MILI^RACE  173 

to  the  end  of  the  mill-race,  and  descended  the  short 
steps  to  the  hillside. 

"No,  I'm  not  angry  —  at  least  I  don't  think  I 
am  —  but  I've  taken  your  advice  and  given  you  up. " 

"But,  Abel " 

"I  suppose  you  meant  to  take  Mr.  Mullen  all  the 
time  that  you  were  making  a  fool  of  me.  He's  a 
better  man  for  you,  probably,  than  I  am. " 

"Do  you  really  think  that?"  she  asked  in  a  tone  of 
surprise.  "Would  you  like  to  see  me  married  to  him? " 

He  hesitated  an  instant  and  then  answered:  "I 
honestly  believe  that  it  is  the  best  thing  for  you  to  do. " 

Instead  of  producing  the  effect  he  had  foreseen, 
his  advice  brought  a  luminous  moisture  to  her  eyes. 

"I  suppose  you  think  it  would  do  me  good  to  be 
preached  to  three  times  a  day?"  she  rejoined. 

"Well,  I  believe  it  wouldn't  hurt  you,  Molly,"  he 
responded  with  a  smile. 

His  attitude  of  renouncement  drew  her  suddenly 
nearer. 

"It  wasn't  about  Mr.  Mullen  that  I  came  to  talk  to 
you  —  there  is  something  else. " 

"Surely  you  aren't  thinking  of  Jim  Halloween?" 

"No,  no,  it  isn't  a  man.  Why  do  you  seem  to  think 
that  the  beginning  and  middle  and  end  of  my  existence 
is  a  man?  There  are  times  when  I  find  even  a  turkey 
more  interesting." 

"It  is  about  a  turkey,  then,  that  you  have  come  to 
see  me?" 

"Oh,  no,  it's  a  man,  after  all,  but  not  a  lover  —  he's 
Mr.  Chamberlayne,  the  lawyer,  from  Applegate. 
Yesterday  when  he  was  spending  the  day  at  the  big 
house,  he  came  over  to  see  me. " 


174        THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

"Had  he  never  seen  you  before?" 

"Of  course,  when  I  was  little  —  and  later  he  took 
me  to  school  in  Applegate.  I  was  to  stay  there  until 
I  was  twenty-one  you  know,  but  I  ran  away  the  second 
year  because  grandfather  fell  ill  with  pneumonia 
and  there  was  no  one  to  look  after  him.  You  remem 
ber  that,  don't  you?" 

"Yes,  I  remember.  I  picked  you  up  on  the  road 
and  brought  you  home  in  my  gig.  There  was  a  heavy 
snow  storm. " 

"It  seems  that  I  was  meant  to  be  educated  as  a 
lady.  Old  Mr.  Jonathan  left  a  letter  about  it. " 

"He  did?  —  damn  him!  Why  didn't  he  save  him 
self  the  trouble  by  acting  decently  in  the  beginning?" 

"That  was  because  of  Mrs.  Gay  —  he  had  prom 
ised  her,  when  he  thought  she  was  dying,  some 
dreadful  thing.  And  after  that  he  was  afraid  — 
afraid  of  her  all  his  life.  Isn't  it  terrible  that  such  a 
saintly  person  should  have  caused  so  much  sin?" 

"But  what  was  she  to  him  that  he  should  have  been 
such  a  coward  about  her?" 

"Oh,  he  loved  her  more  than  anything  on  earth  — 
for  he  loved  my  mother  only  a  little  while. 
When  Mrs.  Gay  first  came  to  live  with  him,  she  was 
so  beautiful  and  so  delicate,  that  she  looked  as  if 
a  wind  would  blow  her  away  —  so  soft  that  she  could 
smother  a  person  like  a  mass  of  feathers.  He  felt 
after  that  that  he  had  entangled  himself,  and  it  was 
only  at  the  last  when  he  was  dying  that  he  had  any 
remorse.  With  all  his  wickedness  there  was  a  terrible 
kind  of  religion  in  him  —  like  a  rock  that  is  buried 
under  the  earth  —  and  he  wanted  to  save  his  soul 
alive  before  he  passed  on  to  judgment.  As  if  that 


BY  THE  MILL-RACE  175 

did  any  good  —  or  he  could  make  amends  either  to 
me  or  to  God. " 

"I  rather  hope  he  was  as  unsuccessful  in  the  last 
case  as  in  the  first.  But,  tell  me,  Molly,  how  does 
it  affect  you?" 

"Not  at  all  —  not  at  all  —  if  he  has  left  me  money, 
I  shall  not  touch  it.  He  wasn't  thinking  of  mother, 
but  of  his  own  soul  at  the  end,  and  can  you  tell  me  that 
God  would  wipe  out  all  his  dreadful  past  just  because 
of  one  instant's  fear?" 

Her  passion,  so  unlike  the  meekness  of  Janet 
Merryweather,  made  him  look  at  her  wonderingly, 
and  yet  with  a  sympathy  that  kept  him  dumb.  It 
took  the  spirit  of  a  Gay  to  match  a  Gay,  he  thought, 
not  without  bitterness. 

"But  why  does  Mr.  Chamberlayne  come  to  you 
now?"  he  asked,  when  he  had  regained  his  voice. 

"It  is  Mrs.  Gay  —  it  has  always  been  Mrs. 
Gay  ever  since  Mr.  Jonathan  first  saw  her.  She 
smothered  his  soul  with  her  softness,  and  wound  him 
about  her  little  finger  when  she  appeared  all  the  time 
too  weak  to  lift  her  hand.  That's  just  what  men 
think  women  ought  to  be  —  just  the  kind  Mr.  Mullen 
preaches  about  in  his  sermons  —  the  kind  that  rules 
without  your  knowing  it.  But  if  she'd  been  bold  and 
bad  instead  of  soft  and  good,  she  couldn't  have  done 
half  the  harm!" 

"And  Miss  Kesiah?"  he  asked,  "had  she  nothing 
to  do  with  it?" 

"She?  Oh,  her  sister  has  drained  her — there 
isn't  an  ounce  of  red  blood  left  in  her  veins.  Mr. 
Jonathan  never  liked  her  because  she  is  homely,  and 
she  had  no  influence  over  him.  Mrs.  Gay  ruled  him. " 


176  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

"I  always  thought  her  so  lovely  and  gentle,"  he 
said  regretfully,  "she  seems  to  me  so  much  more 
womanly  than  Miss  Kesiah. " 

"I  suppose  she  is  as  far  as  her  face  goes,  and  that's 
what  people  judge  by.  If  you  part  your  hair  and  look 
a  certain  way  nothing  that  you  can  do  will  keep  them 
from  thinking  you  an  angel.  When  I  smile  at  Mr. 
Mullen  in  church  it  convinces  him  that  I  like  visiting 
the  sick." 

"How  can  you  laugh  at  him,  Molly,  if  you  are  going 
to  marry  him?" 

"Have  you  positively  decided,"  she  inquired, 
"that  I  am  going  to  marry  him?" 

"Wasn't  that  what  you  meant  when  you  threw  me 
over?" 

She  shook  her  head,  "No,  it  wasn't  what  I  meant  — 
but  since  you've  made  up  your  mind,  I  suppose  there's 
no  use  for  me  to  say  a  word?  " 

"On  the  whole  I  don't  think  there  is  —  for  your 
words  are  not  honest  ones. " 

"Then  why  do  you  judge  me  by  them,  Abel?" 
she  asked  very  softly. 

"Because  a  man  must  judge  by  something  and  I 
can't  look  into  your  heart.  But  if  I'm  not  to  be  your 
lover,"  he  added,  "I'll  not  be  your  plaything.  It's 


now  or  never." 


"Why,  Abel!"  she  exclaimed  in  mock  astonishment. 

"It's  the  last  time  I  shall  ever  ask  you  —  Molly, 
will  you  marry  me?" 

"You've  forgotten  poor  Mr.  Mullen." 

"Hang  Mr.  Mullen!  I  shall  ask  you  just  three 
times,  and  the  third  will  be  the  last  —  Now,  Molly 
will  you  marry  me?  That's  the  second. " 


BY  THE  MILL-RACE  177 

"But  it's  so  sudden,  Abel." 

"If  ten  years  can't  prepare  you,  ten  minutes  will  be 

no  better.     Here  goes  the  third  and  last,  Molly " 

"Abel,  how  can  you  be  so  silly?" 

"That's  not  an  answer  —  will  you ' 

"Do  you  mean  if  I  don't  promise  now,  I'll  never 

have  the  chance  again?" 

"I've  told  you  —  listen " 

"Oh,  wait  a  minute.     Please,  go  slowly." 

"  —Marry  me?" 

"Abel,  I   don't  believe  you   love   me!"  she  said, 

and  began  to  sob. 

"Answer  me  and  I'll  show  you." 

"I  didn't  think  you'd  be  so  cruel  —  when " 

"When?  Remember  I've  stopped  playing,  Molly." 
"When  you  know  I'm  simply  dying  for  you,"  she 

responded. 

He  smiled  at  her  without  moving.     "Then  answer 

my  question,  and  there's  no  drawing  back  this  time 

remember." 

"The  question  you  asked  me?  Repeat  it,  please." 
"I've  said  it  three  times  already,  and  that's  enough." 
"Must  I  put  it  into  words?  Oh  Abel,  can't  you  see 

it?" 

Lifting  her  chin,  he  laughed  softly  as  he  stooped  and 

kissed  her.     "  I've  seen  it  several  times  before,  darling. 

Now  I  want  it  put  into  words  —  just  plain  ones." 

"Then,    Mr.   Abel  Revercomb,"   she  returned   de 
murely,  "I  should  like  very  much  to  marry  you,  if 

you  have  no  objection." 

The  next  instant  her  mockery  fled,  and  in  one  of  those 

spells  of  sadness,  which  seemed  so  alien  to  her,  and  yet 

so  much  a  part  of  her,  she  clung  to  him.   sobbing. 


178  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

"Abel,  I  love  you  so,  be  good  to  me,"  she  entreated. 

"Good  to  you!"  he  exclaimed,  crushing  her  to 
him. 

"Oh, those  dreadful  days  since  we  quarrelled!" 

"Why  did  you  do  it,  darling,  since  you  suffered  as 
well  as  I?" 

"I  can't  tell  —  there's  something  in  me  like  that, 
I  don't  know  what  it  is  —  but  we'll  quarrel  again 
after  this,  I  suppose." 

"Then  we  deserve  to  be  punished  and  I  hope  we 
shall  be." 

"How  will  that  help?  It's  just  life  and  we  can't 
make  it  different."  She  drew  gently  away  from  him, 
while  a  clairvoyance  wiser  than  her  years  saddened 
her  features.  "I  wonder  if  love  ever  lasts?"  she  whis 
pered  half  to  herself. 

But  there  was  no  room  in  his  more  practical  mind  for 
the  question.  "Ours  will,  sweetheart  —  how  can  you 
doubt  it?  Haven't  I  loved  you  for  the  last  ten  years, 
not  counting  the  odd  days?" 

"And  in  all  those  years  you  kissed  me  once,  while 
in  the  last  five  minutes  you've  kissed  me  —  how  many 
times?  You  are  wasteful,  Abel." 

"And  you're  a  dreadful  little  witch  —  not  a  woman." 

"I  suppose  I  am,  and  a  nice  girl  wouldn't  talk  like 
this.  I'm  not  the  wife  you're  wanting,  Abel." 

"The  first  and  last  and  only  one,  my  darling." 

"Judy  Hatch  would  suit  you  better  if  she  wasn't 
in  love  with  the  rector." 

"Confound  Judy  Hatch!  I'll  stop  your  mouth  with 
kisses  if  you  mention  her  again." 

At  this  she  clung  to  him,  laughing  and  crying  in  a 
sudden  passion  of  fear. 


BY  THE  MILL-RACE  179 

"Hold  me  fast,  Abel,  and  don't  let  me  go,  whatever 
happens,"  she  said. 

When  he  had  parted  from  her  at  the  fence  which  di 
vided  his  land  from  Gay's  near  the  Poplar  Spring,  he 
watched  her  little  figure  climb  the  Haunt's  W.> Ik  and 
then  disappear  into  the  leafless  shrubbery  at  the  back  of 
the  house.  While  he  looked  after  her  it  seemed  to  him 
that  the  wan  November  day  grew  radiant  with  colour, 
and  that  spring  blossomed  suddenly,  out  of  season, 
upon  the  landscape.  His  hour  was  upon  him  when  he 
turned  and  retraced  his  steps  over  the  silver  brook 
and  up  the  gradual  slope,  where  the  sun  shone  on  the 
bare  soil  and  revealed  each  separate  clod  of  earth  as 
if  it  were  seen  under  a  microscope.  All  nature  was 
at  one  with  him.  He  felt  the  flowing  of  his  blood  so 
joyously  that  he  wondered  why  the  sap  did  not  rise 
and  mount  upward  in  the  trees. 

In  the  yard  Sarah  was  directing  a  negro  boy>  who 
was  spreading  a  second  layer  of  manure  over  her  more 
delicate  plants.  As  Abel  closed  the  gate,  she  looked 
up,  and  the  expression  of  his  face  held  her  eyes  while 
he  came  toward  her. 

"What  has  happened,  Abel?  You  look  like  Moses 
when  he  came  down  from  the  mountain." 

"It  was  all  wrong  —  what  I  told  you  last  night, 
mother.  Molly  is  going  to  marry  me." 

"You  mean  she's  gone  an'  changed  her  mind  jest 
as  you'd  begun  to  git  along  without  her.  I  declar',  I 
don't  know  what  has  got  into  you  to  show  so  little 
sperit.  If  you  were  the  man  I  took  you  to  be,  you'd 
up  an'  let  her  see  quick  enough  that  you  don't  ax 
twice  in  the  same  quarter." 

"Oh,  all  that's  over  now  —  she's  going  to  marry  me." 


180  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

"You  needn't  shout  so.  I  ain't  deaf.  Samson, 
sprinkle  another  spadeful  of  manure  on  that  bridal- 
wreath  bush  over  thar  by  the  porch." 

"Won't  you  say  you're  pleased?" 

"I  ain't  pleased,  Abel,  an'  I  ain't  going  to  lie  about 
it.  When  I  git  down  on  my  knees  to-night,  I'll  pray 
harder  than  I  ever  prayed  in  my  life  that  you'll  come 
to  yo'  senses  an'  see  what  a  laughing-stock  that  gal 
has  made  of  you." 

"Then  I  wish  I  hadn't  told  you." 

"Well,  I'd  have  knowed  it  anyhow  —  it's  burstin* 
out  of  you.  Where're  you  goin'  now?  The  time's 
gittin'  on  toward  dinner." 

"For  my  axe.^   I  want  to  cut  a  little  timber." 

"What  on  earth  are  you  goin'  to  cut  timber  at  this 
hour  for?" 

"Oh,  I  feel  like  it,  that's  all.  I  want  to  try  my 
strength." 

Going  into  the  kitchen,  he  came  out  a  minute  later 
with  his  axe  on  his  shoulder.  As  he  crossed  the  log 
over  the  mill-stream,  the  spotted  fox-hound  puppy 
waddled  after  him,  and  several  startled  rabbits  peered 
out  from  a  clump  of  sassafras  by  the  "worm"  fence. 
Over  the  fence  went  Abel,  and  under  it,  on  his  fat 
little  belly,  went  Moses,  the  puppy.  In  the  meadow 
the  life-everlasting  shed  a  fragrant  pollen  in  the  sun 
shine,  and  a  few  crippled  grasshoppers  deluded  them 
selves  into  the  belief  that  the  summer  still  lingered. 
Once  the  puppy  tripped  over  a  love-vine,  and  getting 
his  front  paws  painfully  entangled  yelped  sharply  for 
assistance.  Picking  him  up,  Abel  carried  him  in 
his  arms  to  the  pine  wood,  where  he  placed  him  on  a 
bed  of  needles  in  a  hollow. 


BY  THE  MILL-RACE  181 

Through  the  slender  boles  of  the  trees,  the  sunlight 
fell  in  bars  on  the  carpet  of  pine-cones.  The  scent  of 
the  living  forest  was  in  his  nostrils,  and  when  he  threw 
back  his  head,  it  seemed  to  him  that  the  blue  sky  was 
resting  upon  the  tree-tops.  Taking  off  his  coat,  he 
felt  the  edge  of  his  blade,  while  he  leaned  against  the 
great  pine  he  had  marked  out  for  sacrifice.  In  the 
midst  of  the  wood  he  saw  the  walls  of  his  house  rising — 
saw  the  sun  on  the  threshold — the  smoke  mount  from 
the  chimney.  The  dream  in  his  brain  was  the  dream 
of  the  race  in  its  beginning  —  for  he  saw  the  home 
and  in  the  centre  of  the  home  he  saw  a  woman 
and  in  the  arms  of  the  woman  he  saw  a  child.  Though 
the  man  would  change,  the  dream  was  indestructible, 
and  would  flow  on  from  the  future  into  the  future. 
The  end  it  served  was  not  individual,  but  racial  —  for 
it  belonged  not  to  the  soul  of  the  lover,  but  to  the 
integral  structure  of  life. 

Moving  suddenly,  as  if  in  response  to  a  joyous 
impulse,  he  drew  away  from  the  tree,  and  lifting  his 
axe  swung  it  out  into  the  sunlight.  For  an  instant 
there  was  silence.  Then  a  shiver  shook  the  pine  from 
its  roots  upward,  the  boughs  rocked  in  the  blue  sky, 
and  a  bird  flying  out  of  them  sailed  slowly  into  the 
west. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

SHOWS  THE  WEAKNESS  IN  STRENGTH 

WHEN  Abel  had  gone,  Sarah  folded  her  grey  woollen 
shawl  over  her  bosom,  and  ordered  the  boy  with  the 
wheelbarrow  to  return  to  the  barnyard.  Left  alone 
her  eyes  followed  her  son's  figure  as  it  divided  the 
broomsedge  in  the  meadow,  but  from  the  indifference 
of  her  look  she  might  have  gazed  on  the  pine  tree 
toward  which  he  was  moving.  A  little  later,  when 
her  glance  passed  to  the  roof  of  the  mill  there  was 
no  perceptible  change  in  her  expression;  and  she 
observed  dispassionately  that  the  shingles  which 
caught  the  drippings  from  the  sycamore  were  be 
ginning  to  rot.  While  she  stood  there  she  was  in 
the  throes  of  one  of  the  bitterest  sorrows  of  her  life; 
yet  there  was  no  hint  of  it  either  in  her  quiet  face  or  in 
the  rigid  spareness  of  her  figure.  Her  sons  had  resisted 
her  at  times,  but  until  to-day  not  one  of  them  had 
rebelled  openly  against  her  authority  in  the  matter  of 
marriage.  Years  ago,  in  the  period  of  Abner's  re 
action  from  a  blighted  romance,  she  had  chosen, 
without  compunction,  a  mild-mannered,  tame-spirited 
maiden  for  his  wife.  Without  compunction,  when 
the  wedding  was  over,  she  had  proceeded,  from  the 
best  possible  motives,  to  torment  the  tame-spirited 
maiden  into  her  grave. 

"He's  layin'  up  misery  for  himself  and  for  all  con 
cerned,"  she  said  aloud,  after  a  moment,  "a  girl  like 

182 


THE  WEAKNESS  IN  STRENGTH  183 

that  with  no  name  and  precious  little  religion  —  an 
idle,  vain,  silly  hussy,  with  a  cropped  head!" 

A  small  coloured  servant,  in  a  girl's  pinafore  and  a 
boy's  breeches,  came  to  the  door,  and  whispered  that  the 
old  people  were  demanding  a  snack  of  bread  and  molasses. 

"Tell  'em  it  ain't  the  day  for  sweets  an'  they 
ain't  goin'  to  have  any,"  replied  Sarah  sternly. 
"Thar's  a  meat  dinner  to-day,  an'  I've  made  'em  a  good 
soup  out  of  the  bones.  You  know,  pa  an'  ma,  that  you 
ain't  goin'  to  have  meat  an'  molasses  the  same  day," 
she  remarked  as  she  entered  the  kitchen.  "If  I 
didn't  watch  you  every  minute,  you'd  make  yo'selves 
sick  with  overeatin'." 

"I  reckon  you're  right,  Sary,"  piped  grandfather 
in  angry  tones,  "but  I  ain't  so  sure  I  wouldn't  rather 
have  the  sickness  than  the  watchin'.  It's  hard  on  a 
man  of  my  years  an'  experience  that  he  shouldn't  be 
allowed  to  project  with  his  own  stomach." 

"You'd  have  been  dead  long  ago  but  for  me,  an* 
you  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yo'self  for  talkin'  such 
foolishness.  As  if  I  hadn't  wo'  myself  out  with  waitin* 
on  you,  an'  no  blood  relation." 

"No  blood  relation!"  chimed  in  grandmother  mali 
ciously,  "no  blood  relation!" 

"Well,  you  hurry  up  an*  get  ready  for  dinner,  for 
I'm  goin'  out  afterwards." 

"Whar  on  earth  are  you  goin',  Sary?  It  ain't 
Sunday." 

"It  don't  matter  to  you  whar  I'm  goin'  —  you  jest 
set  right  up  an'  eat  yo'  soup." 

When  she  had  poured  the  contents  of  the  pot  into 
the  two  earthenwrare  bowls,  she  crumbled  a  piece  of 
bread  into  each,  and  gave  the  dinner  into  the  trembling 


184  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

hands  which  were  stretched  out  eagerly  to  receive  it. 
Then  taking  the  red-and- white  cloth  from  the  cupboard, 
she  set  the  table  for  five,  and  brought  the  dish  of  tur 
nips  and  boiled  beef  from  the  stove.  Every  detail 
was  as  carefully  attended  to  as  if  her  thoughts  were  not 
on  the  hillside  with  Abel,  but  she  herself  could  not  eat 
so  much  as  a  mouthful.  A  hard  lump  rose  in  her 
throat  and  prevented  her  swallowing. 

The  men  did  not  appear,  so  leaving  their  dinner  in 
the  stove,  she  went  upstairs  and  put  on  her  black  poke 
bonnet  and  the  alpaca  mantle  trimmed  with  bugles 
which  she  wore  on  Sundays  and  on  the  occasional  visits 
to  her  neighbours.  As  it  was  her  custom  never  to 
call  without  bearing  tribute  in  the  form  of  fruit  or 
preserves,  she  placed  a  jar  of  red  currant  jelly  into  a 
little  basket,  and  started  for  her  walk,  holding  it  tightly 
in  her  black  worsted  gloves.  She  knew  that  if  Molly 
divined  her  purpose  she  would  hardly  accept  the 
gift,  but  the  force  of  habit  was  too  strong  for  her,  and 
she  felt  that  she  could  not  start  out  to  make  a  visit 
with  empty  hands. 

Her  chief  anxiety  was  to  be  gone  before  Abel  should 
return,  and  for  this  reason  she  left  the  house  by  the 
back  door,  and  chose  the  small,  descending  path  that 
led  through  the  willows  to  Jordan's  Journey.  As  she 
neared  the  brook  a  bow  of  blue  ribbon  hanging  on  a 
branch  caught  her  eye,  and  she  recognized  a  bit  of 
the  trimming  from  Blossom's  Sunday  dress.  Releas 
ing  it  from  the  tree,  she  put  it  into  her  pocket,  with 
the  resolve  that  she  would  reprove  her  granddaughter 
for  wearing  her  best  clothes  in  such  unsuitable  places. 
Then  her  thoughts  returned  to  the  immediate  object 
of  her  visit,  and  she  told  herself  sternly  that  she  would 


THE  WEAKNESS  IN  STRENGTH  185 

let  Molly  Merry  weather  know  her  opinion  of  her 
while  there  was  yet  time  for  the  girl  to  withdraw  from 
the  marriage.  That  she  was  wronging  her  son  by 
exerting  such  despotic  authority  was  the  last  thought 
that  would  have  occurred  to  her.  A  higher  morality 
than  that  of  ordinary  mortals  had  guided  her  in  the 
past,  and  she  followed  it  now. 

When  she  reached  the  rail  fence,  she  found  some 
difficulty  in  climbing  it,  since  her  legs  had  grown 
rheumatic  with  the  cold  weather;  but  by  letting  the 
basket  down  first  on  a  forked  stick,  she  managed  to 
ease  herself  gently  over  to  the  opposite  side.  Here 
she  rested,  while  she  carefully  brushed  away  the  dried 
pollen  from  the  golden-rod,  which  was  staining  her 
dress.  Then  regaining  her  strength  after  a  minute, 
she  pushed  on  under  the  oak  trees,  where  the  moist, 
dead  leaves  made  a  soft,  velvety  sound,  to  the  apple 
orchard  and  the  sunken  flagged  walk  that  led  to  the 
overseer's  cottage. 

In  the  sunshine  on  the  porch  Reuben  Merry  weather 
was  sitting;  and  at  sight  of  his  visitor,  he  rose,  with  a 
look  of  humble  surprise,  and  invited  her  into  the 
house.  His  manner  toward  her  was  but  a  smaller 
expression  of  his  mental  attitude  to  the  universe. 
That  he  possessed  any  natural  rights  as  an  individual 
had  never  occurred  to  him;  and  the  humility  with 
which  he  existed  gave  place  only  to  the  mild  astonish 
ment  which  filled  him  at  any  recognition  of  that 
existence  by  man  or  Providence. 

"Walk  in  an'  sit  down,  ma'am,"  he  said  hospitably 
leading  the  way  into  the  little  sitting-room,  where  the 
old  hound  dozed  on  the  rug.  "Molly's  jest  gone  down 
to  the  spring-house,  but  she'll  be  back  in  a  minute." 


186  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

"Reuben  Merry  weather  —  "  began  Sarah,  and 
then  she  stopped,  "you  ain't  lookin'  over  sprightly," 
she  said  after  a  pause. 

"I've  got  a  weak  chest,  an'  the  cold  settles  on  it." 

"Did  you  ever  try  mutton  suet  laid  over  it  on  a 
piece  of  red  flannel?  'Tis  the  best  cure  I  know  of." 

"Molly  makes  me  a  plaster  for  it  at  night."  The 
feeling  that  he  had  engrossed  the  conversation  for  his 
selfish  ends  led  him  to  remark  after  a  minute,  "You  have 
changed  but  little,  Sarah,  a  brave  woman  you  are." 

"Not  so  brave,  Reuben,  but  I'm  a  believer  an'  that 
helps  me.  I'd  have  broken  down  under  the  burden 
often  enough  if  my  faith  hadn't  supported  me. 
You've  had  yo'  troubles,  too,  Reuben,  an'  worse  ones." 

"It's  true,  it's  true,"  said  the  old  man,  coughing 
behind  his  hand,  "to  see  my  po'  gal  suffer  so  was 
worst  —  but  however  bad  things  seemed  to  us  on  top, 
I've  al 'ays  believed  thar  was  a  hidden  meanin'  in  'em 
that  our  eyes  couldn't  see." 

"Ah,  you  were  al'ays  a  soft  natured  man,  Reuben, 
too  soft  natured  for  yo'  own  good,  I  used  to  think." 

"'Twas  that  that  stood  against  me  with  you,  Sarah, 
when  we  were  young.  Do  you  remember  the  time 
you  refused  to  drive  back  with  me  from  that  picnic 
at  Falling  Creek  because  I  wouldn't  give  Jacob  Bum- 
pass  a  hiding  about  something?  That  was  a  bitter 
pill  to  me,  an'  I've  never  forgot  it." 

Sarah  had  flushed  a  little,  and  her  stern  face  ap 
peared  to  have  grown  ten  years  younger.  "To  think 
that  you  ain't  forgot  all  that  old  foolishness,  Reuben!  " 

"Well,  thar's  been  time  enough  an'  trouble  enough, 
no  doubt,"  he  answered,  "but  seein'  you  lookin'  so 
like  yo'  old  self  put  me  in  mind  of  it." 


THE  WEAKNESS  IN  STRENGTH  187 

"Lord,  Reuben,  I  ain't  thought  of  all  that  for  forty 
years!" 

"No  mo'  have  I,  Sarah,  except  when  I  see  you  on 
Sundays  sittin'  across  the  church  from  me.  You 
were  a  beauty  in  yo'  day,  though  some  folks  use  to 
think  that  that  little  fair  thing,  Mary  Hilliard,  was 
better  lookin'.  To  me  'twas  like  settin'  a  dairy 
maid  beside  a  queen. " 

"Even  my  husband  thought  Mary  Hilliard,  was 
prettier,"  said  Sarah,  and  her  tone  showed  that  this 
tribute  to  her  youthful  vanity  had  touched  her  heart. 

"Well,  I  never  did.  You  were  al'ays  too  good  for 
me  an'  I  never  begrudged  you  to  Abner.  He  was  a 
better  man. " 

For  an  instant  she  looked  at  him  steadily,  while 
living  honesty  struggled  in  her  bosom  against  loyalty 
to  the  dead. 

"No,  Reuben,  Abner  was  not  a  better  man,"  she 
said  presently,  as  if  the  words  were  thrust  out  of  her 
by  a  chastening  conscience.  "My  pride  kept  me  up 
after  I  had  married  him;  but  he  was  born  shiftless  an' 
he  died  shiftless.  He  never  did  a  day's  work  in  his 
life  that  I  didn't  drive  him  to.  His  children  have 
never  known  how  it  was,  for  I've  al'ays  made  'em 
think  he  was  a  hard  worker  an'  painstakin'  to  keep 
back  his  laziness  from  croppin'  out  in  'em,  if  I 
could." 

"You've  brought  'em  up  well.  That's  a  fine  son 
of  yours  that  comes  courtin'  my  gal,  Sarah.  I've 
hoped  she'd  fancy  him  for  the  sake  of  old  times. " 

"I  never  thought  of  yo'  recollectin'  that  feelin', 
Reuben.  It  makes  me  feel  almost  young  again,  an' 
I  that  old  an'  wo'  out.  I've  had  a  hard  life  —  thar's 


188  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

no  disputin'  it,  marriage  is  mostly  puttin'  up  with 
things,  I  reckon,  when  it  ain't  makin'  believe." 

"Thar's  mighty  few  that  gits  the  one  that's  meant 
for  'em,"  said  Reuben,  "that's  sure  enough.  If  we 
did  we'd  stop  movin'  forward,  I  suppose,  an'  begin  to 
balk.  I  haven't  much  life  now,  except  in  Molly,  an' 
it's  the  things  that  please  or  hurt  her  that  I  feel  the 
most.  She's  got  a  warm  heart  an'  a  hot  temper 
like  you  used  to  have,  Sarah,  an'  the  world  ain't 
easy  generally  to  yo'  sort. " 

For  a  time  Sarah  was  silent,  her  hands  in  their 
black  woollen  gloves  gripping  the  handle  of  the  basket. 

"Well,  I  must  be  goin',  Reuben,"  she  said  presently, 
rising  from  her  chair.  "I'm  sorry  about  yo'  chest, 
an'  I  jest  stepped  over  to  bring  you  this  glass  of  currant 
jelly  I  made  last  summer.  It  goes  well  with  meat 
when  yo'  appetite  ain't  hearty. " 

She  held  out  her  hand,  shook  his  with  a  hurried 
and  awkward  movement,  and  went  out  of  the  front 
door  and  down  the  flagged  walk  as  Molly's  steps  were 
heard  in  the  kitchen  at  the  back. 

"Sarah  Revercomb  has  been  here,  honey,"  said 
Reuben.  "She  brought  me  over  this  glass  of  currant 
jelly,  and  said  she  was  sorry  to  miss  you." 

"Why,  what  could  she  have  meant?"  asked  Molly. 
"She  hates  me  and  she  knows  I've  never  liked  her." 

"Like  most  folks  it  ain't  Sarah  but  the  way  you 
take  her  that  matters.  We've  all  got  the  split  some- 
whar  in  our  shell  if  you  jest  know  how  to  find  it. 
I  reckon  she's  given  in  about  Abel  an'  came  over  to 
show  it. " 

"I'm  glad  she  brought  you  the  jelly,  and  perhaps  she 
is  getting  softer  with  age, "  rejoined  Molly,  still  puzzled. 


THE  WEAKNESS  IN  STRENGTH  189 

"Don't  worry,  honey,  she's  a  good  woman  at  bottom, 
but  mortal  slow  of  larnin',  and  thar's  a  lot  of  Sarah 
in  that  boy  of  hers. " 

"I  suppose  there  is,  grandfather,  for  all  their  fierce 
quarrelling.  They  have  the  kind  of  love  that  will 
die  for  you  and  yet  will  not  so  much  as  suffer  you  to 
live.  That's  the  way  Mrs.  Revercomb  loves,  and  it's 
the  way  Abel  is  loving  me  now. " 

"Let  him  larn,  pretty,  let  him  larn.  He'll  be  worth 
twice  as  much  at  fifty  as  he  is  to-day,  an'  so  will  you 
for  that  matter.  They're  fools  that  say  love  is  for 
the  young,  Molly,  don't  you  believe  'em." 

Sarah,  meanwhile,  passed  slowly  down  the  flagged 
walk  under  the  gnarled  old  apple  trees  in  the  orchard. 
A  few  heavy-winged  insects,  awaking  from  the  frost 
of  the  night,  droned  over  the  piles  of  crushed  wine- 
saps,  and  she  heard  the  sound  as  though  it  came  to 
her  across  a  distance  of  forty  years.  They  were  not 
easy  years;  she  was  worn  by  their  hardness,  crippled 
by  their  poverty,  embittered  by  their  sorrows.  "I've 
had  a  hard  life,"  she  thought.  "I've  had  a  hard  life, 
an'  it  warn't  fair."  For  the  first  time  it  occurred  to 
her  that  the  Providence  she  had  served  had  not  used 
her  honourably  in  return.  "Even  Abner  al'ays 
thought  that  Mary  Hilliard  was  the  prettiest,"  she 
added,  after  a  minute. 

As  she  crossed  the  lawn  at  Jordan's  Journey,  Uncle 
Abednego,  the  butler,  appeared  at  the  back  door,  and 
detained  her  with  an  excited  wave  of  the  hand. 

"Lawd  A'moughty,  dar's  bad  times  yer,  Miss 
Sary!"  he  cried,  "Miss  Angela  she's  been  rrios'  dead 
fur  goin'  on  two  hours,  en  we  all's  done  sont  Cephus 
on  de  bay  horse  arter  Marse  Jonathan ! " 


CHAPTER  XV 

SHOWS  THE  TYRANNY  OF  WEAKNESS 

THREE  days  later  the  bay  horse  returned  at  a  gallop 
with  Jonathan  Gay  in  the  saddle.  At  the  head  of 
the  steps  Kesiah  was  standing,  and  she  answered  the 
young  man's  anxious  questions  with  a  manner  which 
she  tried  to  make  as  sympathetic  as  the  occasion 
required.  This  effort  to  adjust  her  features  into 
harmony  with  her  feelings  had  brought  her  brows 
together  in  a  forbidding  scowl  and  exaggerated  the 
harsh  lines  between  mouth  and  chin. 

"Am  I  in  time?"  he  asked  in  a  trembling  voice,  and 
his  hand  reached  out  to  her  for  support. 

"The  immediate  danger  is  over,  Jonathan,"  she 
answered,  while  she  led  him  into  the  library  and 
closed  the  door  softly  behind  them.  "For  hours  we 
despaired  of  her  recovery,  but  the  doctors  say  now  that 
if  there  is  no  other  shock,  she  may  live  on  for  months.  " 

"I  got  your  note  last  night  in  Washington,"  he 
returned.  "  It  was  forwarded  by  mail  from  Applegate. 
Is  the  doctor  still  with  her?" 

"No,  he  has  just  gone.  The  rector  is  there  now. 
She  finds  him  a  great  comfort." 

"It  was  so  sudden,  Aunt  Kesiah  —  she  appeared 
well  when  I  left  her.  What  caused  the  attack?  " 

"  A  talk  she  had  had  with  Mr.  Chamberlayne.  It 
seems  he  thought  it  best  to  prepare  her  for  the  fact 
that  your  Uncle  Jonathan  left  a  good  deal  of  his 


SHOWS  THE  TYRANNY  OF  WEAKNESS     191 

property  —  it  amounts  to  an  income  of  about  ten 
thousand  a  year,  I  believe,  to  Reuben  Merryweather's 
granddaughter  when  she  comes  of  age.  Of  course 
it  wasn't  the  money  —  Angela  never  gave  that  a 
thought  —  but  the  admission  that  the  girl  was  his 
illegitimate  daughter  that  struck  so  heavy  a  blow. " 

"But  surely  she  must  have  suspected ' 

"She  has  never  suspected  anything  in  her  life.  It 
is  a  part  of  her  sweetness,  you  know,  that  she  never 
faces  an  unpleasant  fact  until  it  is  literally  thrust  on 
her  notice.  As  long  as  your  uncle  was  so  devoted  to  her 
and  so  considerate,  she  thought  it  a  kind  of  disloyalty 
to  inquire  as  to  the  rest  of  his  life.  Once  I  remember, 
twenty  years  ago,  when  that  poor  distraught  creature 
came  to  me  —  I  went  straight  to  Angela  and  tried  to  get 
her  to  use  her  influence  with  your  uncle  for  the  girl's 
sake.  But  at  the  first  hint,  she  locked  herself  in  her 
room  and  refused  to  let  me  come  near  her.  Then  it 
was  that  I  had  that  terrible  quarrel  with  Mr.  Gay,  and 
he  hardly  spoke  to  me  again  as  long  as  he  lived.  I  be 
lieve,  though,  he  would  have  married  Janet  after  my  talk 
with  him  except  for  Angela's  illness,  which  was  brought 
on  by  the  shock  of  hearing  him  speak  of  his  intention. " 
She  sighed  wonderingly,  her  anxious  frown  deepening 
between  her  eyebrows.  "They  both  seemed  to  think 
that  in  some  way  I  was  to  blame  for  the  whole  thing, " 
she  added,  "and  your  uncle  never  forgave  me.  It's 
the  same  way  now.  Mr.  Chamberlayne  spoke  quite 
angrily  to  me  when  he  saw  the  effect  of  his  interview. 
He  appeared  to  think  that  lought  to  have  prevented  it." 
'"  Could  it  have  been  kept  from  her,  do  you  suppose?  " 
"That  looked  impossible,  and,  of  course,  he  broke 
it  to  her  very  gently.  He  also,  you  know,  has  all  his 


192  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

l 

life  had  a  sentiment  about  Angela,  and  that,  I  think 
is  why  he  never  married.  He  told  me  once  that  she 
came  nearer  than  any  woman  he  had  ever  seen  to 
representing  every  man's  ideal. " 

"What  I  can't  understand  is  why  she  should  have 
been  so  upset  by  the  discovery?" 

"Well,  she  was  very  fond  of  your  uncle,  and  she  has 
cherished  quite  romantically  the  memory  of  his  affec 
tion  for  her.  I  think  —  for  that  is  Angela's  way  — 
that  he  means  much  more  to  her  dead  than  he  did 
living  —  and  this,  she  says,  has  blackened  his  image. " 

"But  even  then  it  seems  incomprehensible  that  it 
should  have  made  her  really  so  ill. " 

"Oh,  you  don't  know  her  yet,  Jonathan.  I  remem 
ber  your  uncle  used  to  say  that  she  was  more  like  a 
flower  than  a  woman,  and  he  was  always  starting  alarms 
about  her  health.  We  lived  in  a  continual  panic 
about  her  for  several  years,  and  it  was  her  weakness, 
as  much  as  her  beauty,  that  gave  her  her  tremendous 
power  over  him.  He  was  like  wax  in  her  hands,  though 
of  course  he  never  suspected  it. " 

The  tread  of  Mr.  Mullen  was  heard  softly  on  the 
staircase,  and  he  entered  with  his  hand  outstretched 
from  the  starched  cuff  that  showed  beneath  the  sleeve 
of  his  black  broadcloth  coat.  Pausing  on  the  rug,  he 
glanced  from  Kesiah  to  Jonathan  with  a  grave  and 
capable  look,  as  though  he  wished  them  to  understand 
that,  having  settled  everything  with  perfect  satis 
faction  in  the  mind  of  Mrs.  Gay,  he  was  now  ready  to 
perform  a  similar  office  for  the  rest  of  the  household. 

"I  am  thankful  to  say  that  I  left  your  dear  mother 
resting  peacefully,"  he  observed  in  a  whisper.  "You 
must  have  had  a  distressing  journey,  Mr.  Gay?" 


THE  TYRANNY  OF  WEAKNESS  193 

"I  was  very  much  alarmed,"  replied  Gay,  with  a 
nervous  gesture  as  if  he  were  pushing  aside  a  disagree 
able  responsibility.  "The  note  took  three  days  to 
find  me,  and  I  didn't  know  until  I  got  here  whether 
she  was  alive  or  dead. " 

"It  is  easy  to  understand  your  feelings,"  returned 
the  rector,  still  whispering  though  Gay  had  spoken 
in  his  natural  voice.  "  Such  a  mother  as  yours  deserves 
the  most  careful  cherishing  that  you  can  give  her. 
To  know  her  has  been  an  inspiration,  and  I  am  never 
tired  of  repeating  that  her  presence  in  the  parish,  and 
occasional  attendance  at  church,  are  privileges  for 
which  we  should  not  forget  to  be  thankful.  It  is  not 
possible,  I  believe,  for  any  woman  to  approach  more 
closely  the  perfect  example  of  her  sex. " 

"Perhaps  I  had  better  go  up  to  her  at  once.  We 
are  deeply  grateful  to  you,  Mr.  Mullen,  for  your 
sympathy. " 

"Who  would  not  have  felt?"  rejoined  the  other,  and 
taking  up  his  hat  from  the  table,  he  went  out,  still 
treading  softly  as  though  he  were  walking  upon  some 
thing  he  feared  to  hurt. 

"Poor  mother!  It's  wonderful  the  way  she  has 
with  people!"  exclaimed  Gay,  turning  to  Kesiah. 

"She's  always  had  it  with  men  —  there's  something 
so  appealing  about  her.  You'll  be  very  careful  what 
you  say  to  her,  Jonathan. " 

"Oh,  I'll  not  confess  my  sins,  if  that's  what  you 
mean,"  he  responded  as  he  ascended  the  staircase. 

The  room  was  fragrant  with  burning  cedar,  and 
from  the  dormer-windows,  latticed  by  boughs,  a  band 
of  sunlight  stretched  over  the  carpet  to  the  high 
white  bed  in  which  his  mother  was  lying.  Her  plain- 


194  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

live  blue  eyes,  which  clung  to  him  when  he  entered, 
appeared  to  say;  "Yes,  see  how  they  have  hurt  me  — 
a  poor  frail  creature."  Above  her  forehead  her  hair, 
which  was  going  grey,  broke  into  a  mist,  and  spread 
in  soft,  pale  strands  over  the  pillow.  Never  had  her 
helpless  sweetness  appealed  so  strongly  to  his  emotions, 
as  when  she  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm  and  said  in  an 
apologetic  whisper: 

"Dear  boy,  how  I  hated  to  bring  you  back." 

"As  if  I  wouldn't  have  come  from  the  end  of  the 
world,  dearest  mother,"  he  answered. 

He  had  fallen  on  his  knees  by  her  bed,  but  when 
Kesiah  brought  him  a  chair,  he  rose  and  settled  him 
self  more  comfortably. 

"I  wanted  you,  dear,  but  if  you  knew  how  I  dreaded 
to  become  a  drag  on  you.  Men  must  be  free,  I  know  — 
never  let  me  interfere  with  your  freedom  —  I  feel 
such  a  helpless,  burdensome  creature." 

"If  you  could  only  see  how  young  and  lovely  you 
look  even  when  you  are  ill,  you  would  never  fear 
becoming  a  burden.  In  spite  of  your  grey  hairs,  you 
might  pass  for  a  girl  at  this  minute. " 

"You  wicked  flatterer!  —  but,  oh,  Jonathan,  I've 
had  a  blow!" 

"I  understand.     It  must  have  been  rough. " 

"And  to  think  how  I  had  always  idealized  him!  — 
how  I  had  believed  in  his  love  for  me  and  cherished 
his  memory !  To  discover  that  even  at  the  last  —  on 
his  deathbed  —  he  was  thinking  of  that  woman!" 

She  wept  gently,  wiping  her  eyes  with  a  resigned 
and  suffering  gesture  on  the  handkerchief  Kesiah 
had  handed  her.  "I  feel  as  if  my  whole  universe  had 
crumbled, "  she  said. 


THE  TYRANNY  OF  WEAKNESS  195 

"But  it  was  no  affront  to  you,  mother  —  it  all 
happened  before  he  saw  you,  and  was  only  an  episode. 
Those  things  don't  bite  into  a  man's  life,  you  know." 

"Of  course,  I  knew  there  had  been  something,  but 
I  thought  he  had  forgotten  it  —  that  he  was  faithful 
to  his  love  for  me  —  his  spirit  worship,  he  called  it. 
Then  to  find  out  so  long  after  his  death  —  when  his 
memory  had  become  a  part  of  my  religion  —  that  he 
had  turned  back  at  the  end." 

"It  wasn't  turning  away  from  you,  it  was  merely  an 
atonement.  Your  influence  was  visible  even  there." 

"I  am  sorry  for  the  child,  of  course,"  she  said  sadly, 
after  weeping  a  little — "who  knows  but  she  may  have 
inherited  her  mother's  character?" 

"The  doctor  said  you  were  to  be  quiet,  Angela," 
remarked  Kesiah,  who  had  stood  at  the  foot  of  the 
bed  in  the  attitude  of  a  Spartan.  "Jonathan,  if  you 
begin  to  excite  her,  you'd  better  go. " 

"Oh,  my  boy,  my  darling  boy,"  sobbed  Mrs.  Gay, 
with  her  head  on  his  shoulder,  "I  have  but  one  com 
fort  and  that  is  the  thought  that  you  are  so  different 
—  that  you  will  never  shatter  my  faith  in  you.  If  you 
only  knew  how  thankful  I  am  to  feel  that  you  are  free 
from  these  dreadful  weaknesses  of  other  men. " 

Cowed  by  her  helplessness,  he  looked  down  on  her 
with  shining  eyes. 

"Remember  the  poor  devil  loved  you,  mother, 
and  be  merciful  to  his  memory, "  he  replied,  touched, 
for  the  first  time,  by  the  thought  of  his  uncle. 

"I  shall  try,  Jonathan,  I  shall  try,  though  the 
very  thought  of  evil  is  a  distress  to  me,"  she  replied, 
with  a  saintly  look.  "As  for  the  girl,  I  have  only  the 
tenderest  pity  for  the  unfortunate  creature." 


196  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

"That's  like  you,  mother." 

"  Kesiah  says  that  she  has  behaved  very  well.  Didn't 
you  say  so,  Kesiah?" 

"Yes,  Mr.  Chamberlayne  told  me  that  she  appeared 
perfectly  indifferent  when  he  spoke  to  her.  She 
even  remarked,  I  believe,  that  she  didn't  see  that  it 
concerned  her. " 

"Well,  she's  spirit  enough.  Now  stop  talking, 
mother,  I  am  going." 

"God  bless  you,  my  darling  boy  —  you  have  never 
failed  me. " 

Instead  of  appeasing  his  conscience,  the  remark 
completed  his  descent  into  the  state  of  disenchant 
ment  he  had  been  approaching  for  hours.  The  shock 
of  his  mother's  illness,  coming  after  three  days  of 
marriage,  had  been  too  much  for  his  unstable  equi 
librium,  and  he  felt  smothered  by  an  oppression  which, 
in  some  strange  way,  seemed  closing  upon  him  from 
without.  It  was  in  the  air  —  in  the  faded  cretonne 
of  the  room,  in  the  grey  flashes  of  the  swallows  from 
the  eaves  of  the  house,  in  the  leafless  boughs  etched 
delicately  against  the  orange  light  of  the  sky.  Like 
most  adventurers  of  the  emotions,  he  was  given  to 
swift  despondencies  as  well  as  to  vivid  elations,  and 
the  tyranny  of  a  mood  was  usually  as  absolute  as  it 
was  brief.  The  fact  was  there  while  it  lasted  like  the 
physical  sensation  of  hunger  or  of  gratification.  When 
it  departed  he  seldom  spurred  his  imagination  to  the 
pursuit  of  it. 

"So  it's  over,"  he  said  under  his  breath,  as  he 
looked  through  the  lacework  of  ivy  on  the  small  green 
ish  panes  to  the  desolate  November  fields,  "and  I've 
been  a  damn  fool  for  the  asking!" 


THE  TYRANNY  OF  WEAKNESS  197 

At  the  end  of  the  week  Blossom  returned  to  the 
mill,  and  on  the  afternoon  of  her  arrival,  Gay  met 
her  in  the  willow  copse  by  the  brook.  To  the  casual 
observer  there  would  have  appeared  no  perceptible 
change  in  his  manner,  but  a  closer  student  of  the 
hearts  of  lovers  might  have  drawn  an  inference  from 
the  fact  that  he  allowed  her  to  wait  five  minutes  for 
him  at  the  place  of  meeting.  True,  as  he  explained 
passionately,  his  mother  had  asked  for  him  just  as 
he  was  leaving  the  house,  and  it  was  clearly  impossible 
that  he  should  refuse  his  mother!  That  he  was  still 
ardent  for  Blossom's  embraces  was  evident  to  her 
glance,  but  the  affair  was  settled,  the  mystery  solved, 
and  there  was  no  longer  need  that  he  should  torment 
himself.  That  the  love  of  his  kind  is  usually  a  torment 
or  nothing  had  not,  at  this  stage,  occurred  to  either 
of  the  lovers.  He  was  feeling  strongly  that,  having 
conducted  himself  in  so  honourable  a  manner  there 
was  nothing  more  to  be  expected  of  him;  while  she 
assured  her  heart  that  when  his  love  had  proved 
capable  of  so  gallant  a  sacrifice,  it  had  established 
the  fact  of  its  immortality.  The  truth  was  that  the  fire 
still  burned,  though  the  obstacles,  which  had  supplied 
fuel  to  the  flames,  were  consumed,  and  a  pleasant 
warmth  rather  than  a  destroying  blaze  was  the  result. 
Had  Gay  sounded  the  depths  of  his  nature,  which  he 
seldom  did,  he  would  have  discovered  that  for  him 
passion  was  a  kind  of  restlessness  translated  into 
emotion.  When  the  restlessness  was  appeased,  the 
desire  in  which  it  had  revealed  itself  slowly  evaporated. 

"How  is  your  mother?"  was  Blossom's  first  eager 
question,  "oh,  I  do  hope  she  is  better!" 

"Better,  yes,  but  we're  still  awfully  anxious,  the 


108  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

least  shock  may  kill  her  —  Aunt  Kesiah  and  I  are 

walking  on  pins  and  needles.     How  are  you,  Beauty? 

Did  you  enjoy  your  visit?" 

He  kissed  her  lips,  and  she  clung  to  him  with  the 

first  expression  of  weakness  she  had  ever  shown. 
"How  could  I  when  it  ended  like  that?" 
"Well,    you're    married    anyway  —  that    ought    to 

satisfy  you.     What  does  it  feel  like?" 

"I  can't  believe  it  —  and  I  haven't  even  any  ring." 
"Oh,  the  ring!     If  you'd  had  it,  you'd  have  dropped 

it  about  somewhere  and  let  out  the  secret." 

"I  wish  it  had  been  in  church  and  before  a  clergy 


man.' 


"Are  you  trying  to  make  me  jealous  again  of  the 
Reverend  Orlando?  I'm  an  old  married  man  now, 
and  it  is  hopeless. " 

"Do  you  really  feel  married,  Jonathan?" 

"The  deuce  I  don't!  If  I  did  I'd  be  galloping  down 
the  turnpike." 

"I  wonder  why  you  did  it?"  she  questioned  a  little 
wistfully,  "you  take  it  so  lightly. " 

"I  could  only  take  it  lightly  after  I'd  done  it  — 
that's  why,  darling." 

"If  I  could  believe  in  it  I  shouldn't  mind  the 
secrecy,"  she  said,  "but  I  feel  so  wicked  and  under 
hand  that  I  hardly  dare  hold  up  my  head  before  the 
folks  at  home.  Jonathan,  when  do  you  think  we 
may  come  out  and  confess?" 

For  a  moment  he  did  not  answer,  and  she  watched 
the  frown  gather  slowly  between  his  eyebrows. 

"There,  there,  Blossom,  don't  begin  that  already," 
he  responded  irritably,  "we  can't  make  it  public 
as  long  as  my  mother  lives  —  that's  out  of  the  ques- 


THE  TYRANNY  OF  WEAKNESS  199 

tion.  Do  you  think  I  could  love  you  if  I  felt  you  had 
forced  me  to  murder  her?  Heaven  knows  I've  done 
enough  —  I've  married  you  fair  and  square,  and  you 
ought  to  be  satisfied." 

"I  am  satisfied,"  she  replied  on  the  point  of  tears, 
"but,  oh,  Jonathan,  I'm  not  happy." 

"Then  it's  your  own  fault,"  he  answered,  .still 
annoyed  with  her.  "You've  had  everything  your 
own  way,  and  just  because  I  get  in  trouble  and  come 
to  you  for  sympathy,  you  begin  to  nag.  For  God's 
sake,  don't  become  a  nagging  woman,  Blossom.  A 
man  hates  her  worse  than  poison. " 

"O  Jonathan!"  she  cried  out  sharply,  placing  her 
hand  on  her  breast  as  though  he  had  stabbed  her. 

"Of  course,  I'm  only  warning  you.  Your  great 
charm  is  poise — I  never  saw  a  woman  who  had  so  much 
of  it.  That's  what  a  man  wants  in  a  wife,  too.  Va 
garies  are  all  right  in  a  girl,  but  when  he  marries,  he 
wants  something  solid  and  sensible. " 

"Then  you  do  love  me,  Jonathan?" 

"Don't  be  a  goose,"  he  rejoined  —  for  it  was  a 
question  to  which  he  had  never  in  his  life  returned  a 
direct  answer. 

"Of  course,  I  know  you  do  or  you  wouldn't  have 
married  me  —  but  I  wish  you'd  tell  me  so  —  just  in 
words  —  sometimes." 

"If  I  told  you  so,  you'd  have  no  curiosity  left,  and 
that  would  be  bad  for  you.  Come,  kiss  me,  sweet 
heart,  that's  better  than  talking. " 

She  kissed  him  obediently,  as  mildly  complaisant 
as  she  had  once  been  coldly  aloof.  Though  the 
allurement  of  the  remote  had  deserted  her,  she  still 
possessed,  in  his  eyes,  the  attraction  of  the  beautiful. 


200  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

If  the  excitement  of  the  chase  was  ended,  the  pleasure 
of  the  capture  was  still  amply  sufficient  to  make  up 
the  difference.  He  laughed  softly  as  he  kissed  her, 
enjoying  her  freshness,  her  surrender,  her  adoration, 
which  she  no  longer  attempted  to  hide. 

When  he  parted  from  her  several  hours  afterwards, 
he  had  almost  recovered  the  casual  gaiety  which  had 
become  his  habit  of  mind.  Life  was  too  short  either 
to  wonder  or  to  regret,  he  had  once  remarked,  and  a 
certain  easy  fatalism  had  softened  so  far  the  pricks 
of  a  disturbing  conscience. 

The  walk  from  the  pasture  to  the  house  led  through 
a  tangle  of  shrubbery  called  by  the  negroes,  the 
Haunt's  Walk,  and  as  he  pushed  the  leafless  boughs 
out  of  his  way,  a  flitting  glimpse  of  red  caught  his  eye 
beyond  a  turn  in  the  path.  An  instant  later,  Molly 
passed  him  on  her  way  to  the  spring  or  to  the 
meadows  beyond. 

"Good  day,  Mr.  Jonathan,"  she  said,  while  her 
lips  curved  and  she  looked  up  at  him  with  her  arch 
and  brilliant  smile. 

"Good  day  to  yourself,  cousin,"  he  responded 
gaily,  "what  is  your  hurry?" 

As  he  made  a  movement  to  detain  her,  she  slipped 
past  him,  and  a  minute  afterwards  her  laugh  floated 
back. 

"Oh,  there's  a  reason!"  she  called  over  her  shoulder. 

A  sudden  thought  appeared  to  strike  him  at  her 
words,  and  turning  quickly  in  the  path,  he  looked 
after  her  until  she  disappeared  down  the  winding  path 
amid  the  tangle  of  shrubbery. 

"Jove,  she  is  amazingly  pretty!"  he  said  at  last 
under  his  breath. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE  COMING  OF  SPRING 

THE  winter  began  in  a  long  rain  and  ended  in  a 
heavy  snow  which  lay  for  a  week  over  the  country. 
In  the  chill  mornings  while  she  dressed,  Molly  watched 
the  blue-black  shadows  of  the  crows  skimming  over 
the  white  ground,  and  there  was  always  a  dumb  anxiety 
at  her  heart  as  she  looked  after  them. 

On  Christmas  Eve  there  had  been  a  dance  at  Piping 
Tree,  and  because  she  had  danced  twice  with  Gay 
(who  had  ridden  over  in  obedience  to  a  whim),  Abel 
had  parted  from  her  in  anger.  For  the  first  time  she 
had  felt  the  white  heat  of  his  jealousy,  and  it  had 
aroused  rebellion,  not  acquiescence,  in  her  heart. 
Jonathan  Gay  was  nothing  to  her  (though  he  called 
her  his  cousin)  —  he  had  openly  shown  his  preference 
for  Blossom  —  but  she  insisted  passionately  that  she 
was  free  and  would  dance  with  whomsoever  she  pleased. 
To  Abel's  demand  that  she  should  give  up  "round 
dances"  entirely,  she  had  returned  a  defiant  and 
mocking  laugh.  They  had  parted  in  an  outburst 
of  temper,  to  rush  wildly  together  a  few  days  later 
when  they  met  by  chance  in  the  turnpike. 

"You  love  him,  but  you  don't  love  him  enough, 
honey,"  said  Reuben,  patting  her  head.  "You  love 
yourself  still  better  than  him." 

"Three  months  ago  he  hardly  dared  hope  for  me  — 
he  would  have  kissed  the  dust  under  my  feet  —  and 

201 


202  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

now  he  flies  into  fits  of  jealousy  because  I  dance  with 
another  man." 

"Tis  human  natur  to  go  by  leaps  an'  starts  in  love, 
Molly." 

"It's  a  foolish  way,  grandfather." 

"Well,  I  ain't  claimin'  that  we're  over-wise,  but 
thar's  al'ays  life  ready  to  teach  us." 

When  the  snow  thawed,  spring  appeared  so  sud 
denly  that  it  looked  as  if  it  had  lain  there  all  winter  in 
a  green  and  gold  powder  over  the  meadows.  Flashes 
of  blue,  like  bits  of  fallen  sky,  showed  from  the  rail 
fences;  and  the  notes  of  robins  fluted  up  from  the 
budding  willows  beside  the  brook.  On  the  hill  behind 
Reuben  Merryweather's  cottage  the  peach-trees 
bloomed,  and  red-bud  and  dogwood  filled  the  grey 
woods  with  clouds  of  delicate  colour.  Spring,  which 
germinated  in  the  earth,  moved  also,  with  a  strange 
restlessness,  in  the  hearts  of  men  and  women.  As 
the  weeks  passed,  that  inextinguishable  hope,  which 
mounts  always  with  the  rising  sap,  looked  from 
their  faces. 

On  the  morning  of  her  birthday,  a  warm  April  day, 
Molly  smiled  at  herself  in  the  mirror,  and  because  the 
dimples  became  her,  wondered  how  she  could  manage 
to  keep  on  smiling  forever.  Blushing  and  paling  she 
tried  a  ribbon  on  her  hair,  threw  it  aside,  and  picked 
up  another. 

"I  am  thankful  for  many  things,"  she  was  thinking, 
"and  most  of  all  I  am  thankful  that  I  am  pretty. 
I  suppose  it's  better  to  be  good  like  Judy  Hatch,  but 
I'd  rather  be  pretty." 

She  was  at  the  age  when  the  forces  of  character  still 
lie  dormant,  and  an  accident  may  determine  the 


THE  COMING  OF  SPRING  203 

direction  of  their  future  development.  It  is  the  age 
when  it  is  possible  for  fortune  to  make  a  dare-devil 
of  a  philosopher,  a  sceptic  of  a  worshipper,  a  cynic 
of  a  sentimentalist. 

When  she  went  down  the  flagged  walk  a  little  later 
to  meet  Abel  by  the  blazed  pine  as  she  had  promised, 
she  was  still  smiling  to  herself  and  to  the  blue  birds 
that  sang  joyously  in  the  blossoming  trees  in  the 
orchard.  At  the  end  of  the  walk  her  smile  vanished 
for  she  came  face  to  face  with  Jim  Halloween,  who 
carried  a  new-born  lamb  in  his  arms. 

"Many  happy  returns  of  the  day,"  he  began,  with 
emotion.  "I  thought  a  present  like  this  would  be  the 
most  acceptable  I  could  bring  to  you  —  an*  ma  agreed 
with  me  when  I  asked  her  advice." 

"It's  very  good  of  you  —  and  how  darling  it  is! 
I'll  take  it  back  and  make  it  comfortable  before  I 
start  out." 

Taking  the  lamb  into  her  arms,  she  hid  her  face  in 
its  wool  while  they  returned  to  the  house. 

"It  ain't  so  young  as  it  looks,  an'  will  begin  to  be 
peart  enough  befo'  long,"  he  remarked.  "Something 
useful  as  well  as  ornamental,  was  what  I  had  in  my 
mind  to  bring  you.  'Thar's  nothin'  mo'  suitable  all 
round  for  the  purpose  than  a  lamb,'  was  what  I  said 
to  ma.  'She  can  make  a  pet  of  it  at  first,  an'  then 
when  it  gets  too  big  to  pet,  she  can  turn  it  into  mut 
ton.'  " 

"But  I  wouldn't  —  I'd  never  let  it  be  killed  —  the 
little  darling!" 

"Now,  that's  foolishness,  I  reckon,"  he  returned 
admiringly,  "but  thar's  something  downright  takin* 
in  foolishness  as  long  as  a  woman  is  pretty.  I  don't 


204  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

mind  it,  an'  I  don't  reckon  ma  would  unless  it  turned 
to  wastefulness.  Is  thar'  any  hope  you've  changed 
yo'  mind  since  the  last  time  I  spoke  about  marriage?" 

"No,  I  haven't  changed,  Mr.  Halloween." 

He  sighed  not  passionately,  but  with  a  resigned  and 
sentimental  regret. 

"Well,  in  that  case,  it's  a  pity  I've  wasted  so  much 
time  wantin'  you,  I  reckon,"  he  rejoined.  "It  ain't 
sensible  to  want  what  you  can't  have,  an'  I've  always 
tried  to  be  sensible,  seein'  I'm  a  farmer.  If  I  hadn't 
set  my  fancy  on  you  I'd  have  waited  on  Blossom  Rever- 
comb  as  likely  as  not." 

They  had  reached  the  house,  and  she  did  not  reply 
until  she  had  entered  the  living-room  and  placed  the 
lamb  in  a  basket.  Coming  out  again,  she  took  up 
the  thread  of  the  conversation  as  she  closed  the  door 
behind  her. 

"I  wonder  all  of  you  don't  turn  your  eyes  on 
Blossom,"  she  observed. 

"Yes,  she's  handsome  enough,  but  stiff-mouthed 
and  set  like  all  the  rest  of  the  Revercombs.  I  shouldn't 
like  to  marry  a  Revercomb,  when  it  comes  to  that." 

"Shouldn't  you?"  she  asked  and  laughed  merrily. 

"They  say  down  at  Bottoms,"  he  went  on,  "that 
she's  gone  moonstruck  about  Mr.  Jonathan,  an' 
young  Adam  Doolittle  swears  he  saw  them  walkin' 
together  on  the  other  side  of  old  orchard  hill." 

"I  thought  she  was  too  sensible  a  girl  for  that." 

"They're  none  of  'em  too  sensible.  I'm  the  only 
man  I  ever  saw  who  never  had  a  woman  moonstruck 
about  him  —  an'  it  makes  me  feel  kind  of  lonesome 
to  hear  the  others  talk.  It's  a  painful  experience,  I 
reckon,  but  it  must  be  a  fruitful  source  of  conversation 


THE  COMING  OF  SPRING  205 

with  a  man's  wife,  if  he  ever  marries.  Has  it  ever 
struck  you,"  he  inquired,  "that  the  chief  thing  lackin' 
in  marriage  is  conversation?" 

"I  don't  know  —  I've  never  thought  about  it." 

"Now,  I  have  often  an'  over  again,  ma  bein'  sech  a 
silent  person  to  live  with.  It's  the  silence  that  stands 
between  Blossom  Revercomb  an'  me  —  an'  her  brother 
Abel  is  another  glum  one  of  the  same  sort,  isn't  he?" 

"Do  you  think  so?     I  hadn't  noticed  it." 

"An'  you  seein'  so  much  of  him!  Well,  all  folks 
don't  observe  things  as  sharply  as  I  do  —  'twas  a 
way  I  was  born  with.  But  I  passed  him  at  the  fork 
as  I  came  up,  an'  he  was  standin'  just  as  solemn 
an'  silent  while  Mr.  Chamberlayne,  over  from  Apple- 
gate,  was  askin'  him  questions." 

"What  questions?     Did  you  hear  them?" 

"Oh,  about  his  mother  an'  the  prospects  of  the 
grist-mill.  The  lawyer  went  on  afterwards  to  the  big 
house  to  do  business  with  Mr.  Jonathan." 

They  had  reached  the  point  in  the  road  where  a 
bridle  path  from  the  mill  ran  into  it;  and  in  the 
centre  of  the  field,  which  was  woven  in  faint 
spring  colours  like  an  unfinished  tapestry,  Molly 
descried  the  figure  of  Abel  moving  rapidly  toward  her. 
Dismissing  her  companion,  she  ran  forward  with  her 
warm  blood  suffusing  her  face. 

"Abel,"  she  said,  "tell  me  that  you  are  happy," 
and  lifted  her  mouth  for  his  kiss. 

"Something  in  the  spring  makes  me  wild  for  you, 
Molly.  I  can't  live  without  you  another  year,  and  hear 
the  blue  birds  and  see  the  green  burst  out  so  sudden. 
There  is  a  terrible  loneliness  in  the  spring,  darling." 

"But  I'm  here,  Abel." 


206  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

"Yes,  you're  here,  but  you  aren't  near  enough,  for 
I'm  never  sure  of  you.  That's  the  cause  of  it  —  shall 
I  ever  be  sure  of  you  even  after  we  are  married? 
You've  got  different  blood  in  you,  Molly  —  blood  that 
doesn't  run  quiet,  —  and  it  makes  me  afraid.  Do 
you  know  I've  been  to  look  at  the  pines  this  morn 
ing,  and  I  am  all  one  big  ache  to  begin  on  the  house." 

"But  you're  happy  —  say  you're  happy." 

"How  can  I  be  happy,  when  I'm  wanting  you  with 
every  drop  of  my  blood  and  yet  never  certain  that  I 
shall  have  you.  The  devil  has  a  lot  to  do  writh  it,  I 
reckon  —  for  there  are  times  when  I  am  half  blind 
with  jealousy  and  doubt  of  you.  Did  you  ever  kiss 
a  man  before  me,  Molly?" 

She  laughed,  moved  by  an  instinct  to  torment  him. 
"You  wouldn't  have  asked  me  that  three  months  ago, 
and  you  wouldn't  have  cared." 

"It's  different  now.     I've  got  a  right  to  know." 

"You'll  never  know  anything  because  you  have  the 
'right'  to,"  she  returned  impatiently.  "I  hate  the 
word  —  how  silly  you  are,  Abel." 

"If  you'd  call  me  mad  you'd  come  nearer  to  it,  I 
reckon.  It's  the  way  of  the  Hawtreys  —  we've  al 
ways  gone  neck  and  crop  over  the  fences  without 
giving  a  thought  to  the  damage  we've  done  by  the 
way.  My  mother  went  like  that  at  religion  —  she's 
gone  over  so  hard  to  religion  that  she  hasn't  left  a 
piece  of  her  for  common  humanity.  All  the  world  is 
divided  for  her  between  religion  and  damnation.  I 
believe  she  thinks  the  very  eggs  in  the  hen-house  are 
predestined  to  be  saved  or  damned.  And  with  me  it's 
the  same,  only  it  isn't  religion,  but  you.  It's  all 
you  to  me,  Molly,  even  the  spring." 


THE  COMING  OF  SPRING  207 

"You're  so  wholehearted,  and  I'm  so  light- 
minded.  You  ought  to  have  loved  a  staid,  sober 
woman.  I  was  born  passionate  and  changeful  just 
as  you  were  born  passionate  and  steady." 

"Don't,  Molly,  if  you  only  knew  how  you  hurt  me 
when  you  talk  like  that.  You've  flown  into  my  heart 
like  a  little  blue  bird  into  a  cage,  and  there  you'll  beat 
and  flutter,  but  you  can't  get  out.  Some  day  you'll 
rest  there  quiet,  sweetheart." 

"Don't  call  it  a  cage,  and  never,  never  try  to  hold 
me  or  I'll  fly  away." 

"Yet  you  love  me,  Molly?" 

She  threw  her  arms  about  his  neck,  rising  on  tip 
toe  while  she  kissed  his  mouth.  "I  love  you  —  and 
yet  in  my  heart  I  don't  really  believe  in  love,"  she 
answered.  "I  shouldn't  be  surprised  to  wake  up  any 
morning  and  find  that  I  had  dreamed  it." 

"It  makes  me  want  to  curse  those  that  put 
your  mind  out  of  joint  when  you  were  little  and 
innocent." 

"I  don't  believe  I  was  ever  little  and  innocent  — 
I  was  born  out  of  bitterness." 

"Then  I'll  cure  you,  darling.  I'll  love  you  so  hard 
that  you'll  forget  all  the  terrible  things  you  knew  as 
a  child.  " 

She  shook  her  head,  gaily  and  yet  with  a  touch  of 
scorn  for  his  assurance.  "You  may  try  with  all 
your  strength,  but  when  a  sapling  has  been  bent 
crooked  you  can't  pull  it  straight." 

"But  you  aren't  crooked,  Molly,"  he  answered, 
kissing  her  throat  above  her  open  blouse. 

She  glowed  at  his  kiss,  and  for  one  instant,  it  seemed 
to  them  that  their  spirits  touched  as  closely  as  their 


208  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

bodies,  while  the  longing  and  the  rapture  of  spring 
drew  them  together. 

"You're  mine  now,  Molly  —  I've  got  you  close," 
he  said  as  he  held  her. 

At  his  words  the  rosy  waves  upon  which  they  had 
floated  broke  suddenly  on  the  earth,  and  turning  slowly 
they  walked  hand  in  hand  out  of  the  field  into  the 
turnpike.  A  strange  shyness  had  fallen  over  them, 
for  when  Molly  tried  to  meet  his  eyes,  she  found  that 
her  lashes  trembled  and  fell;  —  yet  this  shyness  was 
as  delicious  as  the  ecstasy  from  which  it  had  come. 

But  Nature  seldom  suffers  such  high  moments  to 
pass  before  they  have  been  paid  for  in  physical  values. 
As  the  lovers  passed  into  the  turnpike,  there  came  the 
sound  of  a  horse  at  a  trot,  and  a  minute  later  Jona 
than  Gay  rode  toward  them,  leaning  slightly  over  the 
neck  of  his  bay.  Seeing  them,  he  lifted  his  hat  and 
brought  down  his  horse  to  a  walk,  as  if  prompted  by  a 
sudden  desire  to  look  closer  in  Molly's  face.  Her 
rapture  evidently  became  her,  for  after  his  first  casual 
glance,  he  turned  again  quickly  and  smiled  into  her  eyes. 
Her  look  met  his  with  the  frankness  of  a  child's  and 
taken  unawares  —  pleased,  too,  that  he  should  so  openly 
admire  her  —  she  smiled  back  again  with  the  glow  of 
her  secret  happiness  enriching  her  beauty. 

In  a  moment  Gay  had  passed  on,  and  turning  to 
Abel,  she  saw  that  a  frown  darkened  his  features. 

"He  had  no  right  to  look  at  you  like  that,  and  you 
oughtn't  to  have  smiled  back,  Molly,"  he  said  sternly. 

Her  nature  leaped  instantly  to  arms.  "I  suppose 
I've  a  right  to  my  smiles,"  she  retorted  defiantly. 

"No  you  haven't  —  not  now.  An  engaged  woman 
ought  to  be  proper  and  sober  —  anybody  will  tell  you 


THE  COMING  OF  SPRING  209 

so  —  ask  Mr.  Mullen.  A  girl  may  flirt  a  little  and 
nobody  thinks  any  harm  of  it,  but  it's  different  after 
wards,  and  you  know  it." 

"I  know  nothing  of  the  kind,  and  I  refuse  to  be 
preached  to.  I  might  as  well  marry  Mr.  Mullen." 

The  taunt,  though  it  was  uttered  half  in  jest,  ap 
peared  to  torment  him  beyond  endurance. 

"How  can  you  talk  to  me  like  this,  after  what  you 
said  five  minutes  ago?"  he  demanded. 

His  tone  approached,  unfortunately,  the  ministerial, 
and  as  he  spoke,  her  anger  flamed  over  her  as  hotly 
as  her  happiness  had  done  a  few  moments  earlier. 

"That  was  five  minutes  ago,"  she  retorted  with 
passion. 

Stopping  in  the  road,  he  caught  her  arms  and  held 
them  to  her  sides,  while  the  thunder  cloud  blackened 
his  forehead.  Two  playthings  of  Nature,  swept 
alternately  by  the  calm  and  the  storm  of  elemental 
forces,  they  faced  each  other  in  the  midst  of  mating 
birds  and  insects  that  were  as  free  as  they. 

"Do  you  mean  that  you've  changed,  and  in  five 
minutes?"  he  asked. 

"I've  always  told  you  I  could  change  in  three," 
she  retorted. 

"I  don't  believe  it  —  you  are  behaving  foolishly." 

"And  you  are  wise,  I  suppose  —  preaching  and 
prating  to  me  as  if  you  stood  in  the  pulpit.  When 
you  were  begging  me  so  humbly  for  a  kind  word, 
I  might  have  known  that  as  soon  as  you  got  the  kind 
word,  you'd  begin  to  want  to  manage  me  body  and 
soul  —  that's  a  man  all  over." 

"I  merely  said  that  an  engaged  woman  ought  not 
to  smile  too  free  at  other  men  —  and  that  you  ought 


£10  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

not  to  even  more  than  others,  because  there  is  some 
thing  so  inviting  about  you.  Mr.  Mullen  would  say 
the  same  thing  from  the  pulpit  —  and  what  one  man 
can  say  in  the  pulpit,  I  reckon,  another  may  repeat 
in  the  road." 

"No,  he  mayn't  —  not  if  he  wants  to  marry  me." 

"If  I  promise  not  to  say  a  word  more  about  it,  will 
you  get  over  your  temper?  " 

"If  you  keep  your  promise,  but  how  am  I  to  know 
that  you  won't  burst  out  again  the  next  time  I  look 
at  a  man?" 

"Only  try  to  look  at  them  a  little  differently,  Molly, 
not  quite  so  wide-eyed  and  red-lipped  —  but  primmer 
and  with  lowered  lashes,  just  a  bit  contemptuous, 
as  if  you  were  thinking  'you  might  as  well  be  a  stick 
or  a  stone  for  all  the  thought  I  am  giving  you." 
The  mental  picture  appeared  to  afford  him  satisfac 
tion,  for  he  resumed  after  a  moment.  "I  believe  if 
you'd  practise  it  a  while  before  the  glass  you  could  do 
it  —  you  are  so  clever." 

"Why  on  earth  should  I  make  myself  ugly  just  to 
please  you?" 

"It  wouldn't  be  making  yourself  ugly  —  I  can't 
endure  an  ugly  woman.  All  I  want  you  to  be  is  sober." 

"Then  what  made  you  fall  in  love  with  me?  It 
certainly  was  not  for  soberness." 

He  shook  his  head  hopelessly,  puzzled  for  the  first 
time  by  the  too  obvious  contradiction  between  the 
ideal  and  the  actual  —  between  the  phantom  of  a 
man's  imagination  and  the  woman  who  enthralls  his 
heart. 

"To  save  my  life  I  couldn't  tell  you  why  I  did,"  he 
replied.  t-"It  does  seem  a  bit  foolish  to  fall  in  love  with 


THE  COMING  OF  SPRING  211 

a  woman  as  she  is  and  then  try  to  make  her  over  into 
something  different/' 

"Judy  Hatch  was  the  person  God  intended  for  you, 
I'm  sure  of  it." 

"Well,  I'm  not,  and  if  I  were  I'd  go  ahead  and  defeat 
his  intentions  as  I'm  doubtless  doing  this  minute. 
Let's  make  up  now,  so  you'd  as  well  stop  talking 
silliness." 

"It's  you  that  talks  silliness,  not  I  —  as  if  I  were 
going  through  life  lowering  my  lashes  and  looking 
contemptuous!  But  you're  your  mother  all  over 
again.  I've  heard  her  say  a  dozen  times  that  a  girl 
who  is  born  homely  ought  to  get  down  on  her  knees  and 
thank  the  Lord  for  protecting  her  from  temptation." 

"You  never  heard  me  say  it,  did  you?" 

"No,  but  I  shall  yet  if  I  live  long  enough  —  and 
all  because  of  your  ridiculous  jealousy." 

The  humour  of  this  struck  him,  and  he  remarked 
rather  grimly: 

"Good  God,  Molly,  what  a  vixen  you  are!"  Then 
he  broke  into  a  laugh,  and  catching  her  to  him,  stopped 
her  mouth  with  kisses. 

"Well,  we're  in  it,"  he  said,  "and  we  can't  get  out, 
so  there's  no  use  fighting  about  it." 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE    SHADE    OF    MR.    JONATHAN 

OLD  REUBEN,  seated  in  his  chair  on  the  porch, 
watched  Molly  come  up  the  flagged  walk  over  the 
bright  green  edgings  of  moss.  Her  eyes,  which  were 
like  wells  of  happiness,  smiled  at  him  beneath  the 
blossoming  apple  boughs.  Already  she  had  forgotten 
the  quarrel  and  remembered  only  the  bliss  of  the 
reconciliation. 

"I've  had  visitors  while  you  were  out,  honey," 
said  the  old  man  as  she  bent  to  kiss  him.  "Mr.  Cham- 
berlayne  and  Mr.  Jonathan  came  up  and  sat  a  bit 
with  me." 

"Was  it  on  business,  grandfather?" 

*  'Twas  on  yo'  business,  Molly,  an'  it  eased  my  mind 
considerable  about  what's  to  become  of  you  when  I'm 
dead  an'  gone.  It  seems  old  Mr.  Jonathan  arranged 
it  all  befo'  he  died,  an'  they've  only  been  waitin'  till 
you  came  of  age  to  let  you  into  the  secret.  He  left 
enough  money  in  the  lawyer's  hands  to  make  you  a 
rich  woman  if  you  follow  his  wishes." 

"Did  they  tell  you  his  wishes?"  she  asked,  turning 
from  Reuben  to  Spot  as  the  blind  dog  fawned 
toward  her. 

"He  wants  you  to  live  with  Miss  Kesiah  and  Mr. 
Jonathan  when  I'm  taken  away  from  you,  honey,  an* 
you're  to  lose  all  but  a  few  hundred  if  you  ever  marry 
and  leave  'em.  Old  Mr.  Jonathan  had  sharp  eyes,  an' 

212 


THE  SHADE  OF  MR.  JONATHAN  213 

he  saw  I  had  begun  to  fail  fast  befo'  he  died.  It's 
an  amazin'  thing  to  think  that  even  after  all  the  moral 
ity  is  wrung  out  of  human  natur  thar'll  still  be  a  few 
drops  of  goodness  left  sometimes  at  the  bottom  of  it.'* 

"And  if  I  don't  do  as  he  wished?  What  will  come 
of  it,  then,  grandfather?" 

"Then  the  bulk  goes  to  help  some  po'  heathens  over 
yonder  in  China  to  the  Gospel.  He  was  a  strange 
man,  was  old  Mr.  Jonathan.  Thar  warn't  never  any 
seein'  through  him,  livin'  or  dead." 

"Why  did  he  ever  come  here  in  the  beginning? 
He  wasn't  one  of  our  people." 

"The  wind  blew  him  this  way,  pretty,  an'  he  was 
never  one  to  keep  goin'  against  the  wind.  When 
the  last  Jordan  died  childless  an'  the  place  was  put 
up  to  be  sold,  Mr.  Jonathan  read  about  it  somewhar, 
an'  it  looked  to  him  as  if  all  he  had  to  do  was  to  come 
down  here  an'  bury  himself  alive  to  git  rid  of  tempta 
tion.  But  the  only  way  to  win  against  temptation 
is  to  stand  square  an'  grapple  with  it  in  the  spot  whar 
it  finds  you,  an'  he  came  to  know  this,  po'  sinner,  befo' 
he  was  done  with  it." 

"He  was  a  good  soldier,  wasn't  he?"  asked  Molly. 

"So  good  a  soldier  that  he  could  fight  as  well  on 
one  side  as  on  t'other,  an'  'twas  only  an  accident  that 
sent  him  into  the  army  with  me  instead  of  against 
me.  I  remember  his  telling  me  once  when  I  met  him 
after  a  battle  that  'twas  the  smell  of  blood,  not  the 
cause,  that  made  him  a  fighter.  Thar's  many  a  man 
like  that  on  both  sides  in  every  war,  I  reckon." 

"I  wonder  how  you  can  be  so  patient  when  you 
think  of  him!"  she  said  passionately  as  he  stopped. 

"You'll     understand     better     when     you're     past 


214  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

seventy,"  he  answered  gently.  "Thar's  a  softness 
like  a  sort  of  green  grass  that  springs  up  an'  covers 
you  when  you  begin  to  git  old  an'  worn  out.  I've 
got  it  an'  Spot's  got  it  —  you  can  tell  by  the  way  he 
won't  trouble  to  git  mad  with  the  chickens  that 
come  peckin'  around  him.  As  soon  as  it's  safely 
spread  over  you,  you  begin  to  see  that  the  last  thing 
to  jedge  anybody  by  is  what  you've  known  of  the 
outside  of  'em." 

"I  can't  feel  about  him  as  you  do,  but  I  don't  mind 
takin'  his  money  as  long  as  you  share  it,"  returned 
the  girl  in  a  softer  voice. 

"It's  a  pile  of  money  such  as  you've  never  heard  of, 
Molly.  Mr.  Chamberlayne  says  thar'll  be  an  income 
of  goin'  on  ten  thousand  dollars  a  year  by  the  time 
you're  a  little  older." 

"Ten  thousand  dollars  a  year  just  for  you  an*  me!" 
she  exclaimed,  startled. 

"Thar  warn't  so  much  when  'twas  left,  but  it's 
been  doublin'  on  itself  all  the  while  you  were  waitin'." 

"We  could  go  everywhere  an'  see  everything, 
grandfather." 

"It  ain't  for  me,  pretty.  Mr.  Jonathan  knew  you 
wouldn't  come  into  it  till  I  was  well  on  my  way  to  the 
end  of  things." 

Kneeling  at  his  side,  she  caught  his  hands  and  clung 
to  him,  sobbing. 

"Don't  talk  of  dying!  I  can't  bear  to  think  of 
your  leaving  me!" 

His  trembling  and  knotted  hands  gathered  her  to 
him.  "The  young  an'  the  old  see  two  different  sides 
of  death,  darlin'.  When  you're  young  an'  full  of 
spirit,  it  looks  powerful  dark  an'  lonely  to  yo*  eyes, 


THE  SHADE  OF  MR.  JONATHAN  215 

but  when  you're  gittin'  along  an'  yo'  bones  ain't  quite 
so  steady  as  they  once  were,  an'  thar  seem  to  be  mo* 
faces  you're  acquainted  with  on  the  other  side  than 
on  this  one  —  then  what  you've  been  so  terrible  afeared 
of  don't  look  much  harder  to  you  than  settlin'  down  to 
a  comfortable  rest.  I've  liked  life  well  enough,  but 
I  reckon  I'll  like  death  even  better  as  soon  as  I've 
gotten  used  to  the  feel  of  it.  The  Lord  always  ap 
pears  a  heap  nearer  to  the  dead,  somehow,  than  He 
does  to  the  livin',  and  I  shouldn't  be  amazed  to  find 
it  less  lonely  than  life  after  I'm  once  safely  settled." 

"You've  seen  so  many  die  that  you've  grown  used 
to  it,"  said  Molly  through  her  tears. 

For  a  moment  he  gazed  wistfully  at  the  apple  boughs, 
while  his  face  darkened,  as  if  he  were  watching  a  pro 
cession  of  shadows.  In  his  seventy  years  he  had  gained 
a  spiritual  insight  which  penetrated  the  visible  body 
of  things  in  search  of  the  truth  beneath  the  ever- 
changing  appearance.  There  are  a  few  blameless  yet 
suffering  beings  on  whom  nature  has  conferred  a 
simple  wisdom  of  the  heart  which  contains  a  profounder 
understanding  of  life  than  the  wisdom  of  the  mind 
can  grasp — and  Reuben  was  one  of  these.  Sorrow  had 
sweetened  in  his  soul  until  it  had  turned  at  last  into 
sympathy. 

"I've  seen  'em  come  an'  go  like  the  flakes  of  light 
out  yonder  in  the  orchard,"  he  answered  almost  in 
a  whisper.  "Young  an'  old,  glad  an'  sorry,  I've  seen 
'em  go  —  an'  never  one  among  'em  but  showed  in 
thar  face  when  'twas  over  that  'twas  the  best  thing 
had  ever  happened.  It's  hard  for  me  now  to  separate 
the  livin'  from  the  dead,  unless  it  be  that  the  dead  are 
gittin'  closer  all  the  time  an'  the  livin'  further  away." 


216  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

"And  you're  never  afraid,  grandfather?" 

"Well,  when  it  comes  to  that,  honey,  I  reckon  if  I 
can  trust  the  Lord  in  the  light,  I  can  trust  him  in  the 
darkness.  I  ain't  as  good  a  Christian  as  my  ma  was — 
she  could  beat  Sarah  Revercomb  when  it  came  to 
sayin'  the  Bible  backwards  —  but  I've  yet  to  see  the 
spot  of  natur,  either  human  or  clay,  whar  we  couldn't 
find  the  Lord  at  work  if  we  was  to  dig  deep  enough." 

He  stopped  at  sight  of  a  small  figure  running  under 
the  apple  trees,  and  a  minute  later  Patsey,  the  Gays' 
maid,  reached  the  flagged  walk,  and  panted  out  a 
request  that  Miss  Molly  should  come  to  the  house 
for  a  birthday  present  which  awaited  her  there. 

"Won't  you  go  with  me,  grandfather?"  asked  the 
girl,  turning  to  Reuben. 

"I  ain't  at  home  thar,  Molly,"  answered  the  old 
man.  "It's  well  enough  to  preach  equality  an'  what 
not  when  you're  walking  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
road,  as  Abel  would  say,  but  it  don't  ring  true  while 
yo'  feet  are  slippin'  an'  slidin'  over  a  parlour  floor." 

"Then  I  shan't  go  without  you.  Where  you  aren't 
welcome  is  a  place  I  can  stay  away  from." 

"Thar,  thar,  honey,  don't  be  runnin'  arter  Abel's 
notions  till  you  find  out  whar  they're  leadin'  you. 
Things  are  better  as  they  are  or  the  Lord  wouldn't 
have  made  'em  so,  an'  He  ain't  goin'  to  step  a  bit 
faster  or  slower  on  o'  count  of  our  ragin'.  Some  folks 
were  meant  to  be  on  top  an'  some  at  bottom,  for 
t'otherwise  God  Almighty  wouldn't  have  put  'em  thar. 
Abel  is  like  Sarah,  only  his  generation  is  different." 

"Do  you  really  think  he's  like  his  mother?"  asked 
Molly  a  little  wistfully. 

"As  haw  is  like  haw.     They're  both  bent  on  doin' 


THE  SHADE  OF  MR.  JONATHAN  217 

the  Lord's  job  over  again  an'  doin'  it  better,  an'  thar 
manner  of  goin'  to  work  would  be  to  melt  up  human 
natur  an'  pour  it  all  into  the  same  pattern.  It  ain't 
never  entered  Sarah's  head  that  you  can't  fit  the  same 
religion  to  every  man  any  mo'  than  you  can  the  same 
pair  of  breeches.  The  big  man  takes  the  big  breeches 
an'  the  little  man  takes  the  small  ones,  an'  it's  jest  the 
same  with  religion.  It  may  be  cut  after  one  pattern, 
but  it's  mighty  apt  to  get  its  shape  from  the  wearer 
inside.  Why,  thar  ain't  any  text  so  peaceable  that 
it  ain't  drawn  blood  from  somebody." 

"All  the  same  I  shan't  go  a  step  without  you," 
persisted  the  girl. 

"Then  find  my  stick  an'  straighten  my  collar.  Or 
had  I  better  put  on  my  Sunday  black?" 

"No,  I  like  you  as  you  are  —  only  let  me  smooth 
your  hair  a  little.  Run  ahead,  Patsey,  and  say  we're 
both  coming." 

Slipping  her  arm  in  his,  she  led  him  through  the 
orchard,  where  the  bluebirds  were  fluting  blissfully 
in  the  apple-trees.  To  the  heart  of  each  spring  was 
calling  —  but  to  Molly  it  meant  promise  and  to  Reuben 
remembrance.  Though  the  bluebirds  sang  only  one 
song,  they  brought  to  the  old  man  and  to  the  girl  a 
different  music. 

"I've  sometimes  thought  Mr.  Mullen  better  suited 
to  you  than  Abel,  Molly,"  said  Reuben  presently, 
uttering  an  idea  that  had  come  to  him  more  than  once. 
"If  you'd  been  inclined  to  fancy  him,  I  don't  believe 
either  Mrs.  Gay  or  Miss  Kesiah  could  have  found  any 
fault  with  him." 

"But  you  know  I  couldn't  care  for  him,  grand 
father,"  protested  Molly  impatiently.  "He  is  like  one 


218  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

of  Mrs.  Bottom's  air  plants  that  grow  without  any 
roots." 

"'Well,  he's  young  yet  an'  his  soul  struts  a  trifle,  but 
wait  till  he's  turned  fifty  an'  he'll  begin  to  be  as  good  a 
Christian  as  he  is  a  parson.  It's  a  good  mould,  but  he 
congealed  a  bit  too  stiff  when  he  was  poured  into  it." 

They  reached  the  grape  arbour  as  he  finished,  and 
a  minute  later  Abednego  led  them  into  the  library, 
where  Kesiah  placed  Reuben  in  a  comfortable  chair 
and  hastened  to  bring  him  a  glass  of  wine  from  the 
sideboard.  At  Molly's  entrance,  Gay  and  Mr. 
Chamberlayne  came  forward  to  shake  hands  with  her, 
while  Mrs.  Gay  looked  up  from  her  invalid's  couch 
and  murmured  her  name  in  a  gentle,  reproachful 
voice.  The  pale  blue  circles  around  the  little  lady's 
eyes  and  faintly  smiling  mouth  were  the  only  signs 
of  the  blighting  experience  through  which  she  had 
passed.  As  she  turned  her  angelic  gaze  on  old  Jona 
than's  daughter  there  was  not  an  instant's  doubt  in  the 
minds  of  those  about  her  that  she  would  accept  the  blow 
with  the  suffering  sweetness  that  enhancedjier  beauty. 

"We  wanted  to  give  you  a  little  reminder  of  us  on 
your  birthday,  Molly,"  she  said,  taking  up  an  amethyst 
cross  on  a  slender  chain  from  the  table  beside  her, 
"and  Jonathan  thought  you  would  like  a  trinket  to 
wear  with  your  white  dresses." 

"I  was  right,  wasn't  I,  cousin?"  asked  Gay,  with  his 
genial  smile. 

Mrs.  Gay  flushed  slightly  at  the  word,  while  Reu 
ben  cast  a  grateful  glance  at  him  over  the  untasted 
glass  of  wine  in  his  hand. 

Without  drawing  a  step  nearer,  Molly  stood  there 
in  the  centre  of  the  room,  nervously  twisting  her 


THE  SHADE  OF  ME.  JONATHAN  219 

handkerchief  in  and  out  of  her  fingers.  She  was 
physically  cramped  by  her  surroundings,  and  the 
reproachful  gentleness  in  Mrs.  Gay's  face  embarrassed 
her  only  less  than  did  the  intimate  pleasantry  of  Jona 
than's  tone.  Every  detail  of  the  library  —  the  richness 
and  heaviness  of  the  furniture,  the  insipid  fixed  smiles 
in  the  family  portrait,  the  costly  fragility  of  the  china 
ornaments  —  all  these  seemed  to  unite  in  some  occult 
power  which  overthrew  her  self-possession  and  par 
alyzed  her  emotions. 

Pitying  her  shyness,  Gay  took  the  chain  from  his 
mother's  hand,  and,  slipping  it  around  Molly's  neck, 
fastened  it  under  the  bunch  of  curls  at  the  back. 
Then  he  patted  her  encouragingly  on  the  shoulder, 
while  he  spoke  directly  to  Reuben. 

"It  looks  well  on  her,  don't  you  think,  Mr.  Merry- 
weather?"  he  inquired. 

"Yes,  it's  a  pretty  gift  an'  she's  much  obliged  to  all 
of  you,"  replied  Reuben,  with  the  natural  dignity 
which  never  deserted  him.  'She's  a  good  girl,  Molly 
is,"  he  added  simply.  "For  all  her  quick  words  an' 
ways  thar  ain't  a  better  girl  livinY' 

"We  are  very  sure  of  that,"  said  Mr.  Chamber- 
layne,  speaking  in  Gay's  place.  "She  is  a  kinswoman 
any  of  us  may  be  proud  of  owning."  And  going  a  step 
nearer  to  her,  he  began  explaining  her  father's 
wishes  in  the  shortest  words  at  his  command. 

They  were  all  kind — all  honestly  anxious  to  do  their 
duty  in  aiding  the  atonement  of  old  Jonathan.  Their 
faces,  their  voices,  their  gestures,  revealed  an  almost 
painful  effort  to  make  her  appear  at  ease.  Yet  in  spite 
of  their  irreproachable  intentions,  each  one  of  them  was 
perfectly  aware  that  the  visit  was  very  far  from  being 


220  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

a  success.  They  admired  her  sincerely,  but  with  the 
exception  of  Gay,  who  was  bothered  by  few  moral 
prejudices,  they  were  one  and  all  nervously  constrained 
in  manner.  To  Mr.  Chamberlayne  she  represented 
merely  an  attractive  object  of  charity;  to  Kesiah  she 
appeared  as  an  encroaching  member  of  the  inferior 
order;  to  Mrs.  Gay  she  embodied  the  tragic  disillu 
sionment  of  her  life.  In  time  they  would  either  forget 
these  first  impressions  or  grow  accustomed  to  them; 
but  while  she  stood  there,  awkward  and  blushing,  in 
the  middle  of  the  library  where  old  Jonathan  had 
worked  out  his  repentance,  even  the  lawyer  found  his 
legal  eloquence  tripping  confusedly  on  his  tongue,  and 
turned  at  last  in  sheer  desperation  to  stare  with  a  sensa 
tion  of  relief  at  the  frowning  countenance  of  Kesiah. 
When,  after  a  hesitating  word  of  thanks,  the  girl  held 
out  her  hand  to  Reuben,  and  they  went  away  arm  in 
arm,  as  they  had  come,  a  helpless  glance  passed  from 
Jonathan  to  Mrs.  Gay  and  from  Mrs.  Gay  into  vacancy. 

"Like  most  eccentric  bequests  made  in  moments  of 
great  moral  purpose,  it  was,  of  course,  a  mistake," 
said  the  lawyer.  "Had  Jonathan  known  the  character 
of  the  miller,  he  would  certainly  have  had  no  objection 
to  Molly's  choice  — if  she  has,  indeed,  a  serious 
fancy  for  the  young  man,  which  I  doubt.  But  in 
his  day,  we  must  remember,  the  Revercombs  had 
given  little  promise  of  either  intelligence  or  industry 
except  in  the  mother.  Granting  this,"  he  added 
thoughtfully,  "it  might  be  possible  to  have  the  con 
ditions  set  aside,  but  not  without  laying  bare  a 
scandal  which  would  cause  great  pain  to  sensitive 
natures " 

He  glanced  sympathetically  at  Mrs.  Gay,  who  re- 


THE  SHADE  OF  MR.  JONATHAN  221 

sponded  almost  unconsciously  to  the  emotional  sug 
gestion  of  his  ideal  of  her. 

"Oh,  never  that!  I  could  not  bear  that!"  she 
exclaimed. 

"The  whole  trouble  comes  of  the  insane  way  people 
arrange  the  future,"  remarked  Jonathan  with  irritation. 
"He  actually  believed,  I  dare  say,  that  he  was  assuring 
the  girl's  happiness  by  that  ridiculous  document.  But 
for  mother  I'd  fight  the  thing  in  the  courts  and  then  give 
Molly  her  share  outright  and  let  her  marry  the  miller." 

The  lawyer  shook  his  head  slowly,  with  his  eyes 
on  Mrs.  Gay.  "Before  all  else  we  must  consider 
your  mother,"  he  answered. 

For  the  first  time  Kesiah  spoke.  "I  am  quite 
willing  to  take  the  girl  when  Reuben  dies,"  she  said, 
"but  why  in  the  world  did  he  put  in  that  foolish 
clause  about  her  living  with  Jonathan  and  myself?" 

Without  looking  at  her  Mr.  Chamberlayne  answered 
almost  sharply.  "The  whole  truth  of  the  matter  is 
that  there  was  a  still  more  absurd  idea  in  his  mind, 
dear  lady,"  he  replied.  "I  may  as  well  let  you  know 
it  now  since  I  combated  it  uselessly  in  my  last  inter- 
•view  with  him.  At  the  bottom  of  his  heart  Jonathan 
remained  incorrigibly  romantic  until  his  death,  and  he 
clung  desperately  to  the  hope  that  if  Molly  received  the 
education  he  intended  her  to  have,  her  beauty  and  her 
charm,  which  seemed  to  him  very  remarkable,  might 
win  his  nephew's  affections,  if  she  were  thrown  in 
his  way.  That,  in  short,  is  the  secret  meaning  of  this 
extraordinary  document." 

The  uncomfortable  silence  was  broken  by  a  laugh  as 
Gay  rose  to  his  feet.  "Well,  of  all  the  ridiculous 
ideas!"  he  exclaimed  in  the  sincerit}7  of  his  amusement. 


CHAPTER  XVm 

THE  SHADE  OF  REUBEN 

ARM  in  arm  Reuben  and  Molly  walked  slowly  home 
through  the  orchard.  Neither  spoke  until  the  old 
man  called  to  Spot  at  his  doorstep,  and  then  Molly 
noticed  that  his  breath  came  with  a  whistling  sound 
that  was  unlike  his  natural  voice. 

*  *  Are  you  tired,  grandfather  ?     "What  is  the  matter  ? ' ' 

"It's  my  chest,  daughter.  Let  me  sit  down  a  while 
an'  it  will  pass.  Who  is  that  yonder  on  the  bench?  " 

"Old  Mr.  Doolittle.  Wait  here  a  minute  before 
you  speak  to  him." 

It  was  a  perfect  spring  afternoon,  and  the  air  was 
filled  with  vague,  roving  scents,  as  if  the  earth  ex 
haled  the  sweetness  of  hidden  flowers.  In  the  apple 
orchard  the  young  grass  was  powdered  with  gold,  and 
the  long  grey  shadows  of  the  trees  barred  the  ground 
like  the  sketchy  outlines  in  an  impressionist  painting. 

On  a  bench  at  one  end  of  the  porch  old  Adam  was 
sitting,  and  at  sight  of  them,  he  rose,  and  stood  wait 
ing  with  his  pipe  in  his  hand. 

"As  'twas  sech  a  fine  day  an'  thar  warn't  any  work 
on  hand  for  a  man  of  my  years,  I  thought  I'd  walk 
over  an'  pay  my  respects  to  you,"  he  said.  "I've 
heard  that  'twas  yo'  granddaughter's  birthday  an' 
that  she's  likely  to  change  her  name  befo'  it's  time  for 
another. " 

"Well,  I'm  glad  to  see  you,  old  Adam,"  replied 

£22 


THE  SHADE  OF  REUBEN  223 

Reuben,  sinking  into  a  chair  while  he  invited  his 
visitor  to  another.  "I've  gone  kind  of  faint,  honey," 
he  added,  "an'  I  reckon  we'd  both  like  a  sip  of  black 
berry  wine  if  you've  got  it  handy.  Miss  Kesiah  gave 
me  something  to  drink,  but  my  throat  wras  so  stiff 
I  couldn't  swallow  it. " 

The  blackberry  wrine  was  kept  in  a  large  stone 
crock  in  the  cellar,  and  while  she  filled  the  glasses, 
Molly  heard  the  voice  of  old  Adam  droning  on  above 
the  chirping  of  the  birds  in  the  orchard. 

"I've  been  settin'  here  steddyin'  them  weeds  out 
thar  over-runnin'  everything,"  he  was  saying,  "an' 
it  does  appear  to  a  considerin'  body  that  the  Lord 
might  have  made  'em  good  grass  an'  grain  with  pre 
cious  little  trouble  to  Himself  an'  a  mortal  lot  of 
satisfaction  to  the  po'  farmers. " 

"He  knows  best.  He  knows  best,"  responded 
Reuben. 

"Well,  I  used  to  think  that  way  befo'  I'd  looked 
into  the  matter,"  rejoined  the  other,  "but  the  deeper 
I  get,  the  less  reason  I  see  to  be  sartain  sure.  'Tis 
the  fashion  for  parsons,  an'  for  some  people  outside 
of  the  pulpit,  to  jump  to  conclusions,  an'  the  one  they've 
jumped  the  farthest  to  get  at,  is  that  things  are  all  as 
they  ought  to  be.  If  you  ain't  possessed  of  the  gift  of 
logic  it  takes  with  you,  but  if  you  are  possessed  of  it,  it 
don't.  Now,  I  tell  you  that  if  a  farmer  was  to  try  to 
run  his  farm  on  the  wasteful  scale  on  wrhich  this  world 
is  conducted,  thar  wouldn't  be  one  among  us  as  would 
trust  him  with  next  season's  crops.  'Tis  sech  a  ter 
rible  waste  that  it  makes  a  frugal  mind  sick  to  see  it. " 

"Let's  be  thankful  that  it  isn't  any  worse.  He 
might  have  made  it  so, "  replied  Reuben,  shocked  by 


224  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

his  neighbour's  irreverence,  yet  too  modest  to  dispute 
it  with  authority. 

"Now,  if  that's  logic  I  don't  know  what  logic  is, 
though  I  was  born  with  the  gift  of  it,"  retorted  old 
Adam.  "When  twenty  seeds  rot  in  the  ground  an' 
one  happens  up,  thar're  some  folks  as  would  praise 
the  Lord  for  the  one  an'  say  nothin'  about  the  twenty. 
These  same  folks  are  forever  drawin'  picturs  of  wild 
things  hoppin'  an*  skippin'  in  the  woods,  as  if  they 
ever  had  time  to  hop  an'  skip  when  they're  obleeged 
to  keep  one  eye  on  the  fox  an'  the  hawk  an'  t'other 
on  the  gun  of  the  hunter.  Yet  to  hear  Mr.  Mullen 
talk  in  the  pulpit,  you'd  think  that  natur  was  all 
hoppin'  an'  skippin'." 

"You're  a  wicked  unbeliever,"  said  Reuben,  mildly 
sorrowful,  "an*  you  ought  to  go  home  and  pray  over 
your  thankless  doubts." 

"I'm  as  I  was  made,"  rejoined  the  other.  "I  didn't 
ax  to  be  born  an'  I've  had  to  work  powerful  hard  for 
my  keep. "  Taking  the  glass  of  blackberry  wine  from 
Molly's  hand,  he  smacked  his  lips  over  it  with  linger 
ing  enjoyment. 

"Do  you  feel  better,  grandfather?"  inquired  the 
girl,  in  the  pause. 

"The  wine  does  me  good,  honey,  but  thar's  a  queer 
gone  feelin'  inside  of  me.  I'm  twenty  years  younger 
than  you,  old  Adam,  but  you've  got  mo'  youth  left 
in  you  than  I  have. " 

"'Tis  my  powerful  belief  in  the  Lord,"  chuckled 
the  elder,  wiping  his  mouth  with  the  back  of  his  hand 
and  placing  the  glass  on  the  end  of  the  bench.  "No, 
no,  Reuben,  when  it  comes  to  that  I  ain't  any  quarrel 
with  folks  for  lookin'  al'ays  at  the  pleasant  side,  but 


THE  SHADE  OF  REUBEN  225 

what  staggers  me  is  why  they  should  take  it  as  a  merit 
to  themselves  when  'tis  nothin'  less  than  a  weakness 
of  natur.  A  man  might  jest  as  well  pride  himself 
that  he  can't  see  out  of  but  one  eye  or  hear  out  of  but 
one  ear  as  that  he  can't  see  nothin'  but  good  when 
evil  is  so  mixed  up  into  it.  Thar  ain't  all  of  us  born 
with  the  gift  of  logic,  but  even  when  we  ain't  we  might 
set  silent  an'  listen  to  them  that  is. " 

A  south  wind,  rising  beyond  the  river,  blew  over 
the  orchard,  and  the  barred  shadows  swung  back  and 
forth  on  the  grass. 

"'Tis  the  eye  of  faith  we  see  with,"  remarked 
Reuben  quietly. 

"Eh,  an'  'tis  the  eye  of  sense  you're  weak  in,"  re 
sponded  old  Adam.  "I  knew  a  blind  man  once  that 
had  a  pictur  of  the  world  in  his  mind  jest  as  smooth  an' 
pretty  as  the  views  you  see  on  the  backs  of  calendars  — 
with  all  the  stink-weeds  an'  the  barren  places  left 
out  of  it  —  an'  he  used  to  talk  to  us  seein'  ones  for  all 
the  earth  as  if  he  were  better  acquainted  with  natur 
than  we  were." 

"I  ain't  larned  an'  I  never  pretended  to  be,"  said 
Reuben,  piously,  "but  the  Lord  has  used  me  well 
in  His  time  an'  I'm  thankful  to  Him." 

"'Now  that's  monstrous  odd,"  commented  the 
ancient  cynic,  "for  lookin'  at  it  from  the  outside,  I'd 
say  He'd  used  you  about  as  bad  as  is  His  habit  in 
general." 

He  rose  from  the  bench,  and  dusted  the  seat  of  his 
blue  overalls,  while  he  gazed  sentimentally  over  the 
blossoming  orchard.  "'Tis  the  seventeenth  of  April, 
so  we  may  git  ahead  with  plantin',"  he  remarked. 
"Ah,  well,  it's  a  fine  early  spring  an'  puts  me  in  mind  of 


226  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

seventy  years  ago  when  I  was  courtin.'  Thar  ain't 
many  men,  I  reckon,  that  can  enjoy  lookin'  back  on 
a  courtin'  seventy  years  after  it  is  over.  'Tis  surprisin' 
how  some  things  sweeten  with  age,  an'  memory  is  one 
of  'em." 

Reuben  merely  nodded  after  him  as  he  went,  for 
he  had  grown  too  tired  to  answer.  A  curious  still 
ness  —  half  happiness,  half  indifference  —  was  stealing 
over  him,  and  he  watched  as  in  a  dream,  the  blue 
figure  of  old  Adam  hobble  over  the  sun-flecked  path 
through  the  orchard.  A  few  minutes  later  Molly 
flitted  after  the  elder,  and  Reuben's  eyes  followed 
her  with  the  cheerful  look  with  which  he  had 
faced  seventy  years  of  life.  On  a  rush  mat  in  the 
sunshine  the  old  hound  flicked  his  long  black  ear  at 
a  fly  of  which  he  was  dreaming,  and  from  a  bower  of 
ivy  in  the  eaves  there  came  the  ceaseless  twitter  of 
sparrows.  Beyond  the  orchard,  the  wind,  blowing 
from  the  marshes,  chased  the  thin,  sketchy  shadows 
over  the  lawn  at  Jordan's  Journey. 

While  he  sat  there  Reuben  began  to  think,  and  as 
always,  his  thoughts  were  humble  and  without  self- 
consciousness.  As  he  looked  under  the  gnarled  boughs 
of  the  orchard,  he  seemed  to  see  his  whole  life  stretching 
before  him  —  seventy  years  —  all  just  the  same  ex 
cept  that  with  each  he  appeared  a  little  older,  a  little 
humbler,  a  little  less  expectant  that  some  miracle 
might  happen  and  change  the  future.  At  the  end 
of  that  long  vista,  he  saw  himself  young  and  strong, 
and  filled  with  a  great  hope  for  something  —  he  hardly 
knew  what  —  that  would  make  things  different.  He 
had  gone  on,  still  hoping,  year  by  year,  and  now  at 
the  end,  he  was  an  old,  bent,  crippled  man,  and  the 


THE  SHADE  OF  REUBEN  227 

miracle  had  never  happened.  Nothing  had  ever 
made  things  different,  and  the  great  hope  had  died 
in  him  at  last  as  the  twenty  seeds  of  which  old  Adam 
had  spoken  had  died  in  the  earth.  He  remembered 
all  the  things  he  had  wanted  that  he  had  never  had  — 
all  the  other  things  he  had  not  wanted  that  had  made 
up  his  life.  Never  had  a  hope  of  his  been  fulfilled, 
never  had  an  event  fallen  out  as  he  had  planned  it, 
never  had  a  prayer  brought  him  the  blessing  for  which 
he  had  prayed.  Nothing  in  all  his  seventy  years 
had  been  just  what  he  had  wanted  —  not  just 
what  he  would  have  chosen  if  the  choice  had  been 
granted  him  —  yet  the  sight  of  the  birds  in  the  apple 
trees  stirred  something  in  his  heart  to-day  that  was 
less  an  individual  note  of  rejoicing  than  a  share  in 
the  undivided  movement  of  life  which  was  pulsing 
around  him.  Nothing  that  had  ever  happened  to 
him  as  Reuben  Merryweather  would  he  care  to  live 
over;  but  he  was  glad  at  the  end  that  he  had  been  a 
part  of  the  spring  and  had  not  missed  seeing  the  little 
green  leaves  break  out  in  the  orchard. 

And  then  while  he  sat  there,  half  dreaming  and  half 
awake,  the  stillness  grew  suddenly  full  of  the  singing 
of  blue  birds.  Spring  blossomed  radiantly  beneath 
his  eyes,  and  the  faint  green  and  gold  of  the  meadows 
blazed  forth  in  a  pageant  of  colour. 

"I'm  glad  I  didn't  miss  it,"  he  thought.  "That's 
the  most  that  can  be  said,  I  reckon  —  I'm  glad  I 
didn't  miss  it." 

The  old  hound,  dreaming  of  flies,  flapped  his  long 
ears  in  the  sunshine,  and  a  robin,  hopping  warily 
toward  a  plate  of  seed-cakes  on  the  arm  of  Reuben's 
chair,  winged  back  for  a  minute  before  he  alighted 


THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

suspiciously  on  the  railing.  Then,  being  an  old  and 
a  wise  bird,  he  advanced  again,  holding  his  head 
slightly  sideways  and  regarding  the  sleeping  man  with 
a  pair  of  bright,  inquisitive  eyes.  Reassured  at  last 
by  the  silence,  he  uttered  a  soft,  throaty  note,  and 
flew  straight  to  the  arm  of  the  chair  in  which  Reuben 
was  sitting.  With  his  glance  roving  from  the  quiet 
man  to  the  quiet  dog,  he  made  a  few  tentative  flutters 
toward  the  plate  of  cake.  Then,  gathering  courage 
from  the  adventure,  he  hopped  deliberately  into  the 
centre  of  the  plate  and  began  pecking  greedily  at  the 
scattered  crumbs. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

TREATS  OF  CONTRADICTIONS 

As  Molly  passed  down  the  Haunt's  Walk,  it 
seemed  to  her,  also,  that  the  spring  had  suddenly 
blossomed.  A  moment  before  she  had  not  known 
that  the  path  she  trod  was  changing  to  emerald,  that 
the  meadows  were  spangled  with  wild-flowers,  that 
the  old  oaks  on  the  lawn  were  blushing  in  rose  and 
silver.  For  weeks  these  miracles  had  happened  around 
her,  and  she  had  not  noticed.  As  oblivious  to  them 
as  old  Adam  Doolittle  was,  she  had  remembered  only 
that  her  birthday  came  on  the  seventeenth  of  April, 
when,  except  for  some  luckless  mishap,  the  promise 
of  the  spring  was  assured. 

A  red-winged  blackbird  darted  like  a  flame  across 
the  path  in  front  of  her,  and  following  it  into  the 
open,  she  found  Kesiah  gathering  wild  azalea  on  the 
edge  of  the  thicket. 

At  the  girl's  approach,  the  elder  woman  rose  from 
her  stooping  posture,  and  came  forward,  wearing  a 
frown,  which,  after  the  first  minute,  Molly  saw  was 
directed  at  the  sunlight,  not  at  herself.  Kesiah's 
long,  sallow  face  under  the  hard  little  curls  of  her 
false  front,  had  never  appeared  more  grotesque  than 
it  did  in  the  midst  of  the  delicate  spring  landscape. 
Every  fragile  blossom,  every  young  leaf,  every 
blade  of  grass,  flung  an  insult  at  her  as  she  stood  there 

229 


£30  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

frowning  fiercely  at  the  sunbeams.  Yet  only  five 
minutes  before  she  had  suffered  a  sharp  recrudes 
cence  of  soul  —  of  that  longing  for  happiness  which 
is  a  part  of  the  resurrection  of  the  spring,  and  which 
may  survive  not  only  the  knowledge  of  its  own  fruit- 
lessness,  but  a  belief  in  the  existence  of  the  very 
happiness  for  which  it  longs.  All  the  unlived  romance 
in  her  heart  had  come  to  life  with  the  young  green 
around  her.  Middle-age  had  not  deadened,  it  had 
merely  dulled  her.  For  the  pang  of  desire  is  not,  after 
all,  the  divine  prerogative  of  youth,  nor  has  it  even 
a  conscious  relation  to  the  possibility  of  fulfilment. 
Her  soul  looked  out  of  her  eyes  while  she  gazed  over 
the  azalea  in  her  hand  —  yet,  in  spite  of  the  songs 
of  the  poets,  the  soul  in  her  eyes  did  not  make  them 
beautiful. 

"I  came  down  with  Jonathan,  Molly,"  she  said. 
"You  will  doubtless  find  him  at  the  brook."  For  an 
instant  she  hesitated  in  confusion  and  then  added 
hurriedly,  "We  were  speaking  about  you." 

"Were  you?"  asked  Molly  a  little  awkwardly,  for 
Kesiah  always  embarrassed  her. 

"WTe  were  both  saying  how  much  we  admired  your 
devotion  to  your  grandfather.  One  rarely  finds  such 
attachment  in  the  young  to  the  old." 

"I  have  always  loved  him  better  than  anybody 
except  mother." 

"I  am  sure  you  have,  and  it  speaks  very  well  for 
both  of  you.  We  are  all  much  interested  in  you,  Molly." 

"It's  kind  of  you  to  think  about  me,"  answered 
Molly,  and  her  voice  was  constrained  as  it  had  been 
when  she  spoke  in  the  library  at  Jordan's  Journey. 

"We  feel  a  great  concern  for  your  future,"  said 


TREATS  OF  CONTRADICTIONS  231 

Kesiah.  "Whatever  we  can  do  to  help  you,  we  shall 
do  very  gladly.  I  always  felt  a  peculiar  pity  and 
sympathy  for  your  mother."  Her  voice  choked,  for 
it  was,  perhaps,  as  spontaneous  an  expression  of  her 
emotions  as  she  had  ever  permitted  herself. 

"Thank  you,  ma'am,"  replied  Molly  simply,  and 
the  title  of  respect  to  which  Reuben  had  trained  her 
dropped  unconsciously  from  her  lips.  She  honestly 
liked  Kesiah,  though,  in  common  with  the  rest  of  her 
little  wrorld,  she  had  fallen  into  the  habit  of  regarding 
her  as  a  person  whom  it  was  hardly  worth  one's  while  to 
consider.  Mrs.  Gay  had  so  completely  effaced  her  sister 
that  the  rough  edges  of  Kesiah's  character  were  hardly 
visible  beneath  the  little  lady's  enveloping  charm. 

"It  is  natural  that  you  should  have  felt  bitterly 
toward  your  father,"  began  the  older  woman  again 
in  a  trembling  voice,  "but  I  hope  you  realize  that  the 
thought  of  his  wrong  to  you  and  your  mother  saddened 
his  last  hours." 

To  her  surprise  Molly  received  the  remark  almost 
passionately. 

"How  could  that  give  me  back  my  mother's  ruined 
life?"  she  demanded. 

"I  know,  dear,  but  the  fact  remains  that  he  was 
your  father  - 

"Oh,  I  don't  care  in  the  least  about  the  fact," 
retorted  Moll}7,  with  her  pretty  rustic  attempt  at  a 
shrug,  which  implied,  in  this  case,  that  the  govern 
ment  of  nature,  like  that  of  society,  rested  solely  on 
the  consent  of  the  governed.  What  was  clear  to 
Kesiah  was  that  this  rebellion  against  the  injustice 
of  the  universe,  as  well  as  against  the  expiation  of 
Mr.  Jonathan,  was  the  outcome  of  a  strong,  though 


232  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

undisciplined,  moral  passion  within  her.  In  her 
way,  Molly  was  as  stern  a  moralist  as  Sarah  Rever- 
comb,  but  she  derived  her  convictions  from  no  aca 
demic  system  of  ethics.  Kesiah  had  heard  of  her 
as  a  coquette;  »ow  she  realized  that  beneath  the 
coquetries  there  was  a  will  of  iron. 

"You  must  come  to  us,  some  day,  dear,  and  let  us  do 
what  we  can  to  make  you  happy,"  she  said.  "It  would 
be  a  pity  for  all  that  money  to  go  to  the  conversion  of 
the  Chinese,  who'are  doubtless  quite  happy  as  they  are." 

"I  wonder  why  he  chose  the  Chinese?"  replied 
the  girl.  "They  seem  so  far  away,  and  there's  poor 
little  Mrs.  Meadows  at  Piping  Tree  who  is  starving 
for  bread." 

"He  was  always  like  that  —  and  so  is  my  sister 
Angela  —  the  thing  that  wasn't  in  sight  was  the  thing 
he  agonized  over."  She  did  not  confess  that  she  had 
detected  a  similar  weakness  in  herself,  and  that,  seen 
the  world  over,  it  is  the  indubitable  mark  of  the 
sentimentalist . 

Analysis  of  Mr.  Jonathan's  character,  however, 
failed  to  interest  his  daughter.  She  smiled  sweetly, 
but  indifferently,  and  made  a  movement  to  pass  on 
into  the  meadow.  Then,  looking  into  Kesiah's  face, 
she  said  in  a  warmer  voice:  "If  ever  you  want  my 
help  about  your  store  room,  Miss  Kesiah,  just  send 
for  me.  When  you're  ready  to  change  the  brine  on 
your  pickles,  I'll  come  down  and  do  it." 

"Thank  you,  Molly,"  answered  the  other;  "you're 
a  nice  light  hand  for  such  things." 

In  some  almost  imperceptible  manner  she  felt 
that  the  girl  had  rebuffed  her.  The  conversation 
had  been  pleasant  enough,  yet  Kesiah  had  meant  to 


TREATS  OF  CONTRADICTIONS  233 

show  in  it  that  she  considered  Molly's  position  changed 
since  the  evening  before;  and  it  was  this  very  sug 
gestion  that  the  girl  had  tossed  lightly  aside  —  tossed 
without  rudeness  or  malice,  but  with  a  firmness,  a 
finality,  which  appeared  to  settle  the  question  forever. 
The  acknowledged  daughter  of  Mr.  Jonathan  Gay 
was  determined  that  she  should  continue  to  be  known 
merely  as  the  granddaughter  of  his  overseer.  Kesiah's 
overtures,  had  been  —  well,  not  exactly  repulsed, 
but  certainly  ignored;  her  advice  had  melted  to 
thin  air  as  soon  as  it  was  spoken.  As  Molly  flitted 
from  her  over  the  young  weeds  in  the  meadow,  the 
older  woman  stood  looking  after  her  with  a  heaviness, 
like  the  weight  of  unshed  tears,  in  her  eyes.  Not 
the  girl's  future,  but  her  own,  appeared  to  her  barren 
of  interest,  robbed  even  of  hope.  The  spirit  that 
combats,  she  saw,  had  never  been  hers  —  nor  had  the 
courage  that  prevails.  For  this  reason  fate  had  been 
hard  to  her  —  because  she  had  never  withstood  it  — 
because  she  had  always  yielded  to  pressure  —  be 
cause  she  had  stepped  by  habit  rather  than  choice  into 
the  vacant  place.  She  was  a  good  woman  —  her  heart 
assured  her  of  this  —  she  had  done  her  duty  no  matter 
what  it  cost  her  —  and  she  had  possessed,  moreover,  a 
fund  of  common  sense  which  had  aided  her  not  a 
little  in  doing  it.  It  was  this  common  sense  that 
told  her  now  that  facts  were,  after  all,  more  important 
than  dreams  —  that  the  putting  up  of  pickles  was  a 
more  useful  work  in  the  world  than  the  regretting 
of  possibilities  —  that  the  sordid  realities  were  not 
less  closely  woven  into  the  structure  of  existence 
than  were  the  romantic  illusions.  She  told  herself 
these  things,  yet  in  spite  of  her  words  she  saw  her 


234  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

future  stretching  away,  like  her  past,  amid  a  multi 
tude  of  small  duties  for  which  she  had  neither  in 
clination  nor  talent.  One  thing  after  another,  all 
just  alike,  day  after  day,  month  after  month,  year 
after  year.  Nothing  ahead  of  her,  and,  looking  back, 
nothing  behind  her  that  she  would  care  to  stop  and 
remember.  "That's  life,"  she  said  softly  to  herself 
and  went  on  her  way,  while  Molly,  glancing  back, 
beheld  her  only  as  a  blot  in  the  sunshine. 

"Poor  Miss  Kesiah,"  the  girl  thought  before 
she  forgot  her.  "I  wonder  if  she's  ever  really 
lived?" 

Then  the  wonder  fled  from  her  mind,  for,  as  a  shadow 
fell  over  her  path,  she  looked  up,  startled,  into  the  eyes 
of  Gay,  who  had  burst  suddenly  out  of  the  willows. 
His  face  was  flushed  and  he  appeared  a  trifle  annoyed. 
As  he  stopped  before  her,  he  cut  sharply  at  the 
weeds  with  a  small  whip  he  carried. 

"Don't,  please,"  she  said;  "I  hate  to  see  people 
cut  off  the  heads  of  innocent  things." 

"It  is  rather  beastly,"  he  returned,  his  face  clearing. 
"Did  you  come  out  to  find  me,  cousin?" 

"Why  should  I,  Mr.  Jonathan?" 

"You  don't  soften  the  blow  —  but  why  'Mr  Jona 
than'?" 

"I  thought  it  was  your  name." 

"It's  not  my  name  to  you  —  I  say,  Molly,  do  you 
mind  my  telling  you  that  you're  a  brick?  " 

"Oh,  no,  not  if  you  feel  like  it." 

"I  do  feel  like  it  tremendously." 

"Then  I  don't  mind  in  the  least,"  and  to  prove  it 
she  smiled  radiantly  into  his  face.  Her  smile  was 
the  one  really  beautiful  thing  about  Molly,  but  as 


TREATS  OF  CONTRADICTIONS  235 

far  as  her  immediate  purpose  went  it  served  her 
as  successfully  as  a  host. 

"By  George,  I  like  your  devotion  to  the  old  chap!" 
he  exclaimed.  "I  hope  a  girl  will  stick  by  me  as  squarely 
when  I  am  beginning  to  totter." 

"Have  you  ever  been  as  good  to  one?"  she  asked 
quite  seriously,  and  wondered  wThy  he  laughed. 

"Well,  I  doubt  if  I  ever  have,  but  I'd  like  very  much 
to  begi/i." 

"You're  not  a  grandfather,  Mr.  Jonathan." 

"No,  I'm  not  a  grandfather  —  but,  when  I  come 
to  think  of  it,  I'm  a  cousin." 

She  accepted  this  with  composure.  "Are  you?" 
she  inquired  indifferently  after  a  minute. 

While  she  spoke  he  asked  himself  if  she  were  really 
dull,  or  if  she  had  already  learned  to  fence  with  her 
exrustic  weapons?  Her  face  was  brimming  with 
expression,  but,  as  he  reminded  himself,  one  never 
could  tell. 

"I  haven't  any  cousin  but  you,  Molly.  Don't 
you  think  you  can  agree  to  take  me?" 

She  shook  her  head,  and  he  saw,  or  imagined  he  saw* 
the  shadow  of  her  indignant  surprise  darken  her 
features. 

"I've  never  thought  of  you  as  my  cousin,"  she 
answered. 

"But  I  am,  Molly." 

"I  don't  think  of  you  so,"  she  retorted.  Again, 
as  in  the  case  of  Kesiah's  advances,  she  was  refusing 
to  constitute  a  law  by  her  acknowledgment. 

"Don't  you  think  if  you  tried  very  hard  you  might 
begin  to?" 

"Why  should  I  try?" 


236  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

"Well,  suppose  we  say  just  because  I  want  you  to." 

"That  wouldn't  help  me.  I  can't  feel  that  it 
would  make  any  difference." 

"What  I  want,  you  mean?" 

"Yes,  what  you  want." 

"Aren't  you  a  shade  more  tolerant  of  my  existence 
than  you  were  at  first?" 

"I  suppose  so,  but  I've  never  thought  about  it  — 
any  more  than  I've  thought  of  this  ten  thousand  a  year. 
It's  all  outside  of  my  life,  but  grandfather's  in  it." 

"Don't  you  ever  feel  that  you'd  like  to  get  outside 
of  it  yourself?  The  world's  a  big  place." 

For  the  first  time  she  appeared  attentive  to  his  words. 

"I've  often  wondered  what  it  was  like  —  especially 
the  cities  —  New  York,  Paris,  London.  Paris  is  the 
best,  isn't  it?" 

"Yes,  Paris  is  the  best  to  me.  Have  you  ever 
thought  that  you'd  like  to  wear  pretty  gowns  and 
drive  through  a  green  park  in  the  spring  —  filled  with 
other  carriages  in  which  are  wonderful  women?" 

"But  I'd  feel  so  miserable  and  countrified,"  she 
answered.  "Are  they  any  happier  than  I  am  —  those 
wonderful  women?" 

"Perhaps  not  so  happy  —  there's  a  green-eyed 
dragon  gnawing  at  the  hearts  of  some  of  them,  and 
you,  my  nut-brown  beauty,  have  never  felt  his  fangs." 

"I'd  like  to  see  them,"  she  said  after  a  minute, 
and  moved  slowly  onward. 

"Some  day  you  may.  Look  here,  Molly,"  he  burst 
out  impulsively,  "I'm  not  going  to  be  sentimental 
about  you.  I  haven't  the  least  idea  of  making  love 
to  you  —  I've  had  enough  of  that  sort  of  rot,  God 
knows  —  but  I  do  like  you  tremendously,  and  I  want 


TREATS  OF  CONTRADICTIONS  237 

to  stand  to  you  as  a  big  brother.  I  never  had  a 
sister,  you  know,"  he  added. 

Something  earnest  and  tender  in  his  voice  touched 
her  generosity,  which  overflowed  so  easily. 

"And  I  never  had  a  brother,"  she  rejoined. 

"Then,  that's  where  I'll  come  in,  little  cousin," 
he  answered  gently,  and,  drawing  her  to  him,  kissed 
her  cheek  with  a  caress  which  surprised  him  by  its 
unlikeness  to  the  ordinary  manifestations  of  love. 

His  hand  was  still  on  her  shoulder,  when  he  felt 
her  start  back  from  his  grasp,  and,  turning  quickly 
in  the  direction  of  her  glance,  he  saw  the  miller  look 
ing  at  them  from  the  thicket  on  the  opposite  side  of 
the  brook.  The  anger  in  Abel's  face  had  distorted 
his  handsome  features  until  they  appeared  swollen 
as  if  from  drink,  and  for  a  single  instant  Gay  imagined 
that  it  was  indeed  whisky  and  not  passion  that  had 
wrought  so  brutal  a  change  in  him. 

"So  you've  made  a  fool  of  me,  too,  Molly?"  he  said, 
when  he  had  swung  over  the  stream  and  stood  facing 
her. 

"You're  all  wrong,  Revercomb,"  began  Gay,  and 
stopped  the  next  instant,  because  Molly's  hand  had 
shot  out  to  silence  him. 

"Will  you  be  quiet?"  she  flung  at  him  impatiently; 
and  then  fixing  her  eyes  on  Abel,  she  waited  silently 
for  him  to  finish  his  speech.  That  her  lover's  fiery 
temper  had  aroused  her  own,  Gay  realized  as  soon  as  he 
turned  to  her.  Her  face  was  pale,  but  her  eyes  blazed, 
and  never  had  he  felt  so  strongly  the  tie  of  blood 
that  united  them  as  he  did  while  she  stood  there 
waiting  for  Abel's  accusations  with  a  gesture  which 
appeared  to  fling  them  back  in  disdain. 


238  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

"I  might  have  known  'twas  all  fool's  play  with 
you  —  I  might  have  known  you  had  flirted  too  much 
to  settle  down  to  an  honest  love,"  said  Abel,  breath 
ing  hard  between  his  words  as  if  each  one  were  torn 
from  him  with  a  physical  wrench  at  his  heart.  In 
losing  his  self-possession  he  had  lost  his  judgment 
as  well,  and,  grasping  something  of  his  love  from  the 
sincerity  of  his  emotion,  Gay  made  another  ineffectual 
effort  to  present  the  situation  in  a  fairer  light. 

"If  you  would  only  listen,  my  good  fellow  —  if  you 
would  only  let  me  explain  things  -  "  he  began. 

"Will  you  be  quiet?"  said  Molly  a  second  time,  and 
then  facing  him  passionately  she  threw  him  a  gesture 
of  dismissal.  "If  you  want  to  please  me,  you  will  go." 

"And  leave  you  alone  with  him?" 

She  laughed.  "Do  you  think  I'm  afraid  of  an 
angry  man,  or  that  I've  never  seen  one  before?" 

With  that  he  obeyed  her,  turning  from  time  to  time 
on  his  way  over  the  meadow  to  make  sure  that  she 
did  not  need  his  support.  In  spite  of  the  utter  un 
reasonableness  of  the  affair,  in  some  unaccountable 
way  his  sympathies  were  on  the  side  of  the  miller. 
The  fellow  was  a  boor,  of  course,  but,  by  Jove!  he 
was  a  magnificent  boor.  It  had  been  long  since  Gay 
had  seen  such  an  outburst  of  primitive  feeling  —  long 
since  he  had  come  so  close  to  the  good  red  earth  on 
which  we  walk  and  of  which  we  are  made. 

"  You're  out  of  your  head,  Abel,"  said  Molly — 
Gay  turned  away  from  them  —  and  the  tone  in  which 
she  spoke  was  hardly  calculated  to  bring  him  back 
to  the  place  he  had  deserted.  "You  will  say  things 
you'll  regret,  but  I'll  never  forgive." 

"I'm  sick  of  your  eternal  forgiveness,"  he  retorted. 


TREATS  OF  CONTRADICTIONS  239 

"I've  been  forgiven  every  time  you  got  into  a  temper, 
and  I  suppose  I'll  be  forgiven  next  every  time  you 
are  kissed."  The  "rousing"  which  had  threatened 
every  Revercomb  was  upon  him  at  last. 

"Well,  as  a  matter  of  fact  it  is  time  enough  for  you 
to  forgive  me  when  I  ask  you  to,"  she  returned. 

"You  needn't  ask.  It's  too  much  this  time,  and 
I'll  be  damned  before  I  will  do  it." 

Bending  over  a  grey  skeleton  of  last  year's  golden- 
rod,  she  caressed  it  gently,  without  breaking  its 
ghostly  bloom.  Years  afterward,  when  she  had  for 
gotten  every  word  he  uttered,  she  could  still  see 
that  dried  spray  of  golden-rod  growing  against  the 
April  sky  —  she  could  still  hear  a  bluebird  that  sang 
three  short  notes  and  stopped  in  the  willows.  In  the 
quiet  air  their  anger  seemed  to  rush  together  as  she  had 
sometimes  thought  their  love  had  rushed  to  a  meeting. 

"You  have  neither  the  right  to  forgive  me  nor  to 
judge  me,"  she  said.  "Do  you  think  I  care  what  a 
man  imagines  of  me  who  believes  a  thing  against  me 
as  easily  as  you  do.  If  you  went  on  your  knees 
to  me  now  I  should  never  explain  —  and  if  I  chose 
to  kiss  every  man  in  the  county,"  she  concluded  in 
an  outburst  of  passion,  "you  have  nothing  to  do 
with  it!" 

"Explain?  How  can  a  girl  explain  a  man's  kissing 
her,  except  by  saying  she  let  him  do  it?" 

"I  did  let  him  do  it,"  she  gasped. 

For  an  instant  they  gazed  at  each  other  in  an  anger 
more  violent  in  its  manifestation  than  their  love 
had  been.  An  observer,  noticing  them  for  the  first 
time,  would  have  concluded  that  they  had  hated  each 
other  for  years,  not  that  they  had  been  lovers  only 


240  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

a  few  minutes  before.  Nature,  having  wearied  of  her 
play,  was  destroying  her  playthings. 

"I  woulH  marry  no  man  on  earth  who  wouldn't  believe 
me  in  spite  of  that  —  and  everything  else,"  she  said. 

"Do  you  expect  a  man  to  believe  you  in  spite  of 
his  eyes?" 

"Eyes,  ears  —  everything!  Do  you  think  I'd  have 
turned  on  you  like  that  before  I  had  heard  you?" 

A  sob,  not  of  pity,  but  of  rage,  burst  from  her  lips, 
and  the  sound  sobered  him  more  completely  than  her 
accusations  had  done.  Her  temper  he  could  withstand, 
but  that  little  childish  sob,  bitten  back  almost  before 
it  escaped,  brought  him  again  on  his  knees  to  her. 

"I  can't  understand  —  oh,  Molly,  don't  you  see  I 
am  in  torment?"  he  cried. 

But  the  veil  of  softness  was  gone  now,  and  the 
cruelty  that  is  bound  up  in  some  inexplicable  way  in 
all  violent  emotion  —  even  in  the  emotion  of  love  — 
showed  itself  on  the  surface. 

"Then  stay  there,  for  you've  made  it  for  yourself," 
she  answered,  and  turned  away  from  him.  As  his 
voice  called  her  again,  she  broke  into  a  run,  flying 
before  him  over  the  green  meadow  until  she  reached 
the  lawn  of  Jordan's  Journey,  and  his  pursuit  ended. 
Then,  hurrying  through  the  orchard  and  up  the 
flagged  walk,  she  ascended  the  steps,  and  bent  over 
Reuben  in  his  chair. 

"Grandfather,  I  am  back.     Are  you  asleep?" 

The  robin  that  had  flown  from  the  railing  at  her 
approach  swung  on  the  bough  of  an  apple-tree  and 
regarded  her  with  attention. 

"Grandfather,"  she  said  again,  touching  him, 
"oh,  grandfather,  wake  up!" 


CHAPTER  XX 

LIFE'S  IRONIES 

WHEN  he  came  down  to  breakfast  next  morning, 
Abel  heard  of  Reuben's  death  from  his  mother. 

"Well,  you  can't  tell  who's  goin'  to  be  the  next," 
she  concluded  grimly,  as  she  poured  the  coffee. 

In  spite  of  her  austere  manner  and  her  philosophical 
platitude,  Sarah  was  more  moved  in  her  heart 
than  she  had  dared  to  confess.  From  the  moment 
that  she  had  heard  of  Reuben's  death  —  when  she 
had  gone  over  with  some  of  her  mourning  to  offer 
Molly  —  she  had  ceased  to  think  of  him  as  an  old 
man,  and  her  mind  had  dwelt  upon  him  as  one  who 
had  been  ruthlessly  cut  off  in  his  prime  — as  he  might 
have  been  had  the  end  come  some  thirty  or  forty 
years  before.  Memory,  that  great  miracle  worker, 
had  contrived  to  produce  this  illusion;  and  all  Sarah's 
hard  common  sense  could  not  prevent  her  feeling 
an  indignant  pity  because  Reuben's  possibilities 
of  happiness  had  been  unfulfilled.  Trouble  after 
trouble  and  never  anything  to  make  up  for  them,  and 
then  to  go  this  way  while  he  was  resting!  "It's  like 
that,"  she  thought  bitterly  to  herself,  alluding  to  life. 
"It's  like  that!"  And  it  seemed  to  her  suddenly  that 
the  whole  of  existence  was  but  a  continual  demonstra 
tion  of  the  strong  religious  dogmas  on  which  her  house 
of  faith  had  been  reared.  When  you  looked  around 
you,  she  thought,  with  triumph,  there  wasn't  any  ex- 

241 


$42  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

planation  of  the  seeming  injustice  except  original  sin. 
There  was  a  strange  comfort  in  this  conviction,  as 
though  it  represented  the  single  reality  to  which  she 
could  cling  amid  the  mutable  deceptions  of  life. 
4 'Thar  wouldn't  be  any  sense  in  it  if  'twarn't  for  that," 
she  would  sometimes  say  to  herself,  as  one  who  draws 
strength  from  a  secret  source  of  refreshment. 

In  Abel  the  news  of  Reuben's  death  awoke  a  different 
emotion,  and  his  first  thought  was  of  Molly.  He 
longed  to  comfort  her  in  his  arms,  and  the  memory 
of  the  quarrel  of  yesterday  and  even  of  the  kiss  that 
led  to  it  seemed  to  increase  rather  than  to  diminish 
this  longing. 

Rising  from  his  untested  breakfast,  he  hurriedly 
swallowed  a  cup  of  coffee  and  took  up  his  hat. 

"I  am  going  to  see  Molly,  mother;  would  you  like 
to  send  a  message?" 

Blossom,  who  was  gazing  out  of  the  window  with 
her  eyes  full  of  dreams,  turned  at  his  words. 

"Give  her  my  love,  Abel,"  she  said. 

"Tell  her  he  was  a  good  man  and  had  fewer  sins  to 
his  account  than  most  of  us,"  added  Sarah. 

"Did  you  know,  Abel,  that  old  Mr.  Jonathan  left 
her  ten  thousand  dollars  a  year  as  long  as  she  lives 
with  the  Gays?"  asked  Blossom,  coming  over  to  where 
he  stood. 

He  stared  at  her  in  amazement.  "Where  on  earth 
did  you  hear  that?"  he  asked. 

A  flush  reddened  her  face. 

"Somebody  told  me.  I  forget  just  who  it  was," 
she  replied. 

"When  did  it  happen?  How  long  have  you 
known  it?" 


[  LIFE'S  IRONIES  243 

But  she  was  on  her  guard  now,  wrapped  in  that 
soft,  pale  reticence  which  was  the  spiritual  aspect 
of  her  beauty. 

"It  may  have  been  only  one  of  the  darkies'  stories. 
I  didn't  pay  much  attention  to  it,"  she  answered,  and 
busied  herself  about  the  geraniums  in  the  window. 

"Oh,  you  can't  put  any  faith  in  the  darkies'  tales," 
rejoined  Abel,  and,  after  leaving  a  message  with  his 
mother  for  a  farmer  with  whom  he  had  an  appointment, 
he  hastened  out  of  the  house  and  over  the  fields  in  the 
direction  of  Reuben  Merryweather's  cottage.  Here, 
where  he  had  expected  to  find  Molly,  Kesiah  met  him, 
with  some  long  black  things  over  her  arm,  and  a  frown 
of  anxious  sympathy  on  her  face. 

"The  child  is  broken-hearted,"  she  said  with  dignity, 
for  a  funeral  was  one  of  the  few  occasions  upon  which  she 
felt  that  she  appeared  to  advantage.  "  I  don't  thkik  she 
can  see  you  —  but  I'll  go  in  and  ask,  if  you  wish  it." 

She  went  in,  returning  a  minute  later,  with  the 
black  things  still  over  her  arm,  and  a  deeper  frown  on 
her  forehead. 

"No  —  I'm  sorry,  but  she  doesn't  wish  to  see  any 
one.  You  know,  the  old  hound  died  in  the  night,  and 
that  has  added  to  her  sorrow." 

"Perhaps  if  I  come  back  later?" 

"Perhaps;  I  am  not  sure.  As  soon  as  the  funeral 
is  over  she  will  come  to  us.  You  have  heard,  I  suppose, 
of  the  change  in  —  in  her  circumstances?" 

"Then  it  is  true?     I  heard  it,  but  I  didn't  believe  it." 

Molly  had  fled  suddenly  into  remoteness  —  not 
Reuben's  death,  but  Mr.  Jonathan's  "provision," 
had  swept  her  away  from  him.  Like  other  mortals 
in  other  crises  of  experience,  he  was  aware  of  a  help- 


244  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

less,  a  rebellious,  realization  of  the  power,  not  of  fate, 
but  of  money.  No  other  accident  of  fortune  could 
have  detached  her  so  completely  from  the  surround 
ings  in  which  he  had  known  her.  Though  he  told  him 
self  that  to  think  of  wealth  as  a  thing  to  separate 
them  was  to  show  a  sordid  brutality  of  soul,  he  re 
volted  the  next  instant  from  the  idea  that  his  love 
should  demand  so  great  a  sacrifice.  Like  the  majority 
of  men  who  have  risen  to  comparative  comfort  out 
of  bitter  poverty,  he  had  at  the  same  time  a  profound 
contempt  and  an  inordinate  respect  for  the  tangible 
fact  of  money  —  a  contempt  for  the  mere  value  of 
the  dollar  and  a  respect  for  the  ability  to  take  stands 
of  which  that  mystic  figure  was  the  symbol.  Sarah's 
hard  common  sense,  overlaid  as  it  was  by  an  em 
broidery  of  sentiments  and  emotions,  still  constituted 
the  basic  quality  in  his  character,  and  Sarah  would 
have  been  the  last  woman  in  the  world  to  think  lightly 
of  renouncing  —  or  of  inviting  another  to  renounce 
—  an  income  of  ten  thousand  dollars  a  year.  He 
might  dream  that  love  would  bring  happiness,  but  she 
was  reasonably  assured  that  money  would  bring  com 
fort.  Between  the  dream  and  the  assurance  there 
would  have  been,  in  Sarah's  mind  at  least,  small 
room  left  for  choice.  He  had  known  few  women, 
and  for  one  dreadful  minute  he  asked  himself,  pas 
sionately,  if  Molly  and  his  mother  could  be  alike? 

Unconsciously  to  himself  his  voice  when  he  spoke 
again  had  lost  its  ring  of  conviction. 

"Perhaps  I  may  see  her  later?"  he  repeated. 

"  The  funeral  will  be  to-morrow.     You  will  be  there?" 

"Yes,  I'll  be  there,"  he  replied;   and  then  because 
there  was  nothing  further  for  him  to  say,  he  bowed 


LIFE'S  IRONIES  245 

over  his  hat,  and  went  down  the  flagged  walk  to  the 
orchard,  where  the  bluebirds  were  still  singing.  His 
misery  appeared  to  him  colossal  —  of  a  size  that  over 
shadowed  not  only  the  spring  landscape,  but  life  itself. 
He  tried  to  remember  a  time  when  he  was  happy,  but 
this  was  beyond  the  stretch  of  his  imagination  at  the 
moment,  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  had  plodded 
on  year  after  year  with  a  leaden  weight  oppressing  his 
heart. 

"I  might  have  known  it  would  be  like  this,"  he  was 
thinking.  "First,  I  wanted  the  mill,  so  I'd  lie  awake 
at  night  about  it,  and  then  when  I  got  it  all  the  ma 
chinery  was  worn  out.  It's  always  that  way  and 
always  will  be,  I  reckon."  And  it  appeared  to  him 
that  this  terrible  law  of  incompleteness  lay  like  a 
blight  over  the  whole  field  of  human  endeavour.  He 
saw  Molly,  fair  and  fitting  as  she  had  been  yester 
day  after  the  quarrel,  and  he  told  himself  passionately 
that  he  wanted  her  too  much  ever  to  win  her.  On  the 
ground  by  the  brook  he  saw  the  spray  of  last  year's 
golden-rod,  and  the  sight  brought  her  back  to  him  with 
a  vividness  that  set  his  pulses  drumming.  In  his 
heart  he  cursed  Mr.  Jonathan's  atonement  more  fer 
vently  than  he  had  ever  cursed  his  sin. 

The  next  day  he  went  to  Reuben's  funeral,  with  his 
mother  and  Blossom  at  his  side,  walking  slowly  across 
the  moist  fields,  in  which  the  vivid  green  of  the  spring 
showed  like  patches  of  velvet  on  a  garment  of  dingy 
cloth.  In  front  of  him  his  mother  moved  stiffly  in 
her  widow's  weeds,  which  she  still  wore  on  occasions 
of  ceremony,  and  in  spite  of  her  sincere  sorrow  for 
Reuben  she  cast  a  sharp  eye  more  than  once  on  the 
hem  of  her  alpaca  skirt,  which  showed  a  brown  stain 


246  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

where  she  had  allowed  it  to  drag  in  a  forgetful  moment. 
Only  Archie  was  absent,  but  that  was  merely  because 
he  had  driven  over  to  bring  one  of  the  Halloween 
girls  in  Abel's  gig.  Sarah  had  heard  him  whistling 
in  the  stable  at  daybreak,  and  looking  out  of  the  win 
dow  a  little  later  she  had  seen  him  oiling  the  wheels 
of  the  vehicle.  It  had  been  decided  at  supper  the 
tvening  before  that  the  family  as  a  unit  should  pay 
its  respects  to  Reuben.  From  Sarah,  comforting  her 
self  behind  her  widow's  weeds  with  the  doctrine  of 
original  sin,  to  Archie,  eager  to  give  his  sweetheart  a 
drive,  one  and  all  had  been  moved  by  a  genuine  impulse 
to  dignify  as  far  as  lay  in  their  power  the  ceremonial 
of  decay.  Even  Abner,  the  silent,  had  remarked  that 
he'd  "never  heard  a  word  said  against  Reuben  Merry- 
weather  in  his  life."  And  now  at  the  end  of  that  life 
the  neighbours  had  gathered  amid  the  ridges  of  green 
graves  in  the  churchyard  to  bear  witness  to  the  re 
moval  of  a  good  man  from  a  place  in  which  he  had 
been  honoured. 

During  the  service  Abel  kept  his  eyes  on  Molly, 
who  came  leaning  on  Gay's  arm,  and  wearing  what 
appeared  to  him  a  stifling  amount  of  fashionable  mourn 
ing.  He  was  too  ignorant  in  such  matters  to  discern 
that  the  fashion  was  one  of  an  earlier  date,  or  that  the 
mourning  had  been  hastily  gathered  from  cedar  chests 
by  Kesiah.  The  impression  he  seized  and  carried  away 
was  one  of  elegance  and  remoteness;  and  the  little 
lonely  figure  in  the  midst  of  the  green  ridges  bore  no 
relation  in  his  mind  to  the  girl  in  the  red  jacket,  who  had 
responded  so  ardently  to  his  kiss.  The  sunlight  falling 
in  flecks  through  the  network  of  locust  boughs  deepened 
the  sense  of  unreality  with  which  he  watched  her. 


LIFE'S  IRONIES  247 

"It''s  a  good  service  as  such  ready-made  things 
go,"  observed  Sarah  as  they  went  homeward,  "but 
it  seems  to  me  that  a  man  as  upright  as  Reuben  was 
is  entitled  to  a  sermon  bein'  preached  about  him  when 
he's  laid  in  his  grave.  What's  the  difference  between 
the  good  man  and  the  bad,  if  you're  goin'  to  say  the 
same  words  over  the  one  and  the  other?  I  ain't  a 
friend  to  flattery,  but  it  can't  hurt  a  man  to  have  a 
few  compliments  paid  him  in  the  churchyard,  and  when 
all's  said  an'  done,  'lookin'  for  the  general  Resurrec 
tion'  can't  be  construed  into  a  personal  compliment 
to  Reuben." 

"When  a  man  has  been  as  pious  as  that  he  hasn't  any 
use  for  compliments,  livin'  or  dead,"  rejoined  Abner. 

"  WTell,  I  ain't  contendin',"  replied  his  mother.  "The 
Lord  knows  thar  ain't  any  of  his  kind  left,  the  mo'  's 
the  pity!  Things  have  changed  sence  Reuben  an'  I 
was  young,  an'  the  very  language  Abel  an'  Blossom 
speak  is  different  from  ours.  I  reckon  if  old  Mr.  Jona 
than  was  to  ride  along  these  roads  to-ctay  thar  wouldn't 
be  anybody,  unless  it  was  a  nigger,  to-open  the  gate 
for  him." 

"You  bet  there  wouldn't!"  exclaimed  Abel  with 
fervour. 

Abner,  walking  at  Sarah's  side,  wore  the  unnerved 
and  anxious  expression  of  a  man  who  is  conscious 
that  he  is  wearing  his  Sunday  suit  when  it  has  grown 
too  small  to  contain  him.  His  agony  was  so  evident 
that  Blossom,  observing  it  in  the  midst  of  her  senti 
mental  disturbances,  remarked  affectionately  that  he 
looked  as  if  he  "were  tired  to  death." 

"I've  got  the  church  fidgets  in  my  legs,"  he  said. 
"I  reckon  I'll  get  into  my  everyday  suit  an'  finish 


9AS  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

that  piece  of  ploughin'.  Are  you  goin'  back  to  the 
mill,  Abel?" 

"No,  I've  shut  down  for  the  day,"  Abel  replied. 
The  funeral  had  turned  his  mind  into  its  Sunday  habit 
of  thought  and  he  was  determined  that  his  present 
state  of  misery  should  extend  reverently  until 
the  evening.  From  some  instinct,  which  he  did  not 
attempt  to  explain,  it  appeared  more  respectful  to 
Reuben  to  sit  idle  for  the  rest  of  the  day  than  to  follow 
Abner's  example  and  go  out  and  finish  his  work. 

The  next  morning  he  decided  to  write  Molly  a 
letter,  and  as  the  ordinary  paper  his  mother  kept  at 
the  house  seemed  unsuitable  for  delivery  at  Jordan's 
Journey,  he  walked  down  to  the  store  to  purchase  a 
few  sheets  from  Mrs.  Bottom. 

"Nothing  common  and  cheap,"  he  said,  "but  the 
very  best  you  have  in  the  store  —  such  as  they  use 
in  the  city." 

Suspecting  his  purpose,  she  produced  at  once  a 
turquoise  coloured  box,  from  which  she  extracted  an 
envelope  that  was  ornamented  on  the  flap  with  a  white 
dove  holding  a  true  lover's  knot  in  his  beak. 

"This  is  the  very  thing  you're  lookin*  for,"  she 
observed,  in  the  tone  of  one  who  is  conscious  of  being 
an  authority  in  that  sphere  to  which  God  has 
called  her,  "the  latest  style  in  Applegate." 

Picking  up  the  envelope  he  held  it  doubtfully  toward 
the  light  in  the  doorway. 

"Are  you  sure  it  isn't  a  little  —  a  little  loud?"  he 
inquired  wistfully. 

"Loud?  Dear  me,  to  think  ®f  you  callin'  a  dove  an* 
a  blue  ribbon  bow  loud!  Ain't  that  jest  like  a  man? 
They  can't  be  expected  to  have  taste  in  sech  matters. 


LIFE'S  IRONIES 

No,  it  ain't  loud!"  she  replied  with  more  direct  con 
descension.     "It's  the  latest  thing  from  Applegate  - 
the  girls  are  all  crazy  about  it  —  jest  the  little  artistic 
trifle  that  catches  a  woman's  eye." 

In  the  end,  under  the  sting  of  her  rebuke,  though 
but  half  convinced,  he  concluded  the  purchase  and 
went  out,  bearing  the  box  of  ornamented  paper  under 
his  arm.  An  hour  later,  after  the  letter  was  written, 
misgivings  besieged  him  anew,  and  he  stood  holding 
the  envelope  at  arm's  length,  wrhile  he  frowned  dubi 
ously  at  the  emblematic  dove  on  the  flap. 

"It  doesn't  look  just  right  to  me,"  he  said  under  his 
breath,  "but  Mrs.  Bottom  ought  to  know,  and  I 
reckon  she  does." 

The  letter  went,  and  the  next  afternoon  he  followed 
it  in  person  to  Jordan's  Journey.  Gay  was  coming 
down  the  walk  when  he  reached  the  lawn,  and  after  a 
moment's  hesitation  they  stopped  to  exchange  a  few 
remarks  about  the  weather. 

"There's  something  I  want  to  explain  to  you, 
Revercomb,"  said  Jonathan,  wheeling  back  abruptly 
/•after  they  had  parted.  "Molly  has  become  a  member 
of  our  household,  you  see;  so  my  relation  to  her  is 
really  that  of  a  cousin.  She's  a  staunch  little  soul  — 
I've  a  tremendous  admiration  for  her  —  but  there 
has  never  been  the  slightest  sentiment  between  us, 
you  understand." 

"Yes,  I  understand,"  replied  Abel,  and  fell  silent. 

There  was  a  certain  magnanimity,  he  recognized,  in 
Gay's  effort  to  put  things  right  even  while  he  must 
have  preferred  in  his  heart  to  have  them  remain  in  the 
wrong.  As  Molly's  cousin  it  was  hardly  probable  that  he 
should  care  to  hasten  her  marriage  to  a  country  miller. 


250  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

"Well,  I  wanted  you  to  know,  that  was  all,"  said  Gay 
in  a  friendly  tone.  "You'll  find  Molly  in  the  side- 
garden,  so  I  wouldn't  trouble  to  knock  if  I  were  you." 

He  went  on,  swinging  with  an  easy  stride  between 
the  hedges  of  box,  while  Abel,  passing  the  right  wing 
in  obedience  to  the  directions,  found  Molly  walking 
up  and  down  in  a  small  grassy  path,  which  was  sprinkled 
with  snowdrops.  The  "side-garden"  was  a  ruined, 
over-grown  square,  planted  in  miniature  box,  which 
the  elder  Gay  had  laid  out  after  one  of  his  visits  to 
Italy.  Now,  with  its  dwindling  maze  and  its  un- 
pruned  rose-bushes,  it  resembled  a  picture  which  has 
been  blotted  out  until  the  original  intention  of  the 
artist  is  no  longer  discernible.  Yet  the  place  was 
exquisite  still.  Spring  had  passed  over  it  with  her 
magical  touch,  and  she  had  decorated  the  spot  she 
could  no  longer  restore.  The  scent  of  box  filled  the 
air,  and  little  new  green  leaves  had  put  out  on  the 
dusky  windings  of  the  maze. 

As  Abel  approached,  Molly  was  moving  slowly  away 
from  him,  her  long  black  skirt,  which  had  been  made 
to  fit  Mrs.  Gay,  trailing  over  the  snowdrops  in  the 
path.  When  she  turned  at  the  end  of  the  walk,  there 
was  the  faintest  hesitancy  in  her  manner .  before  she 
came  forward  with  a  smile  and  an  outstretched  hand. 
In  some  subtle  way  she  had  changed  —  he  felt  it  be 
fore  she  reached  him  —  before  she  uttered  a  word. 
He  had  never  seen  her  in  a  long  dress  until  to-day; 
and  in  putting  on  Mrs.  Gay's  gown  she  seemed  to 
have  clothed  herself  in  that  lady's  appealing  and 
pensive  manner.  The  black  skirt,  flowing  between 
them  on  the  grass,  divided  them  more  completely 
than  the  memory  of  their  quarrel.  He  was  chilled 


LIFE'S  IRONIES  251 

because  it  made  her  appear  reserved  and  distant;  she 
was  embarrassed  because  she  had  not  yet  learned  to 
walk  in  a  train,  and  while  it  pleased  and  flattered  her 
with  a  sense  of  dignity,  it  also  caused  her  to  feel  awk 
ward  and  unnatural  in  her  movements,  as  if  she  were 
not  "playing  up"  successfully  to  the  part  that  had 
been  assigned  her.  She  had  learned  a  good  deal  in 
three  days,  and  she  was  still  a  little  confused  by  the 
endeavour  to  understand  all  of  her  lessons.  Sincere 
as  her  sorrow  was  for  Reuben,  her  youth  and  a  cer 
tain  quickness  of  observation  had  kept  her  mind 
ful  of  every  change  through  which  she  had  passed,  of 
every  detail  which  distinguished  life  at  the  "big 
house"  from  life  in  the  overseer's  cottage.  She  had 
learned,  for  instance,  the  necessity,  in  such  circum 
stances,  of  eating  as  if  it  were  an  utterly  indifferent 
matter,  and  yet  of  coming  to  one's  meals  dressed  as 
elaborately  as  if  one  were  on  one's  way  to  church. 
Kesiah  had  taught  her  much;  but  from  Gay,  with  his 
abundant  kindliness,  his  self-possession,  his  good 
clothes,  she  had  learned  incomparably  more.  Kesiah 
had  shown  her  the  external  differences  in  "things," 
while  Gay  had  opened  her  eyes  to  the  external  differ 
ences  that  might  count  in  men.  Until  she  knew  Gay 
she  had  believed  that  the  cultivation  of  one's  appear 
ance  was  a  matter  that  concerned  women  alone. 
Now,  when  moved  by  some  unfortunate  impulse  of 
respect  for  her  mourning,  Abel  showed  himself  before 
her  in  his  Sunday  clothes,  she  was  conscious  of  a 
shock  which  she  would  never  have  felt  in  the  old  days 
in  the  overseer's  cottage.  In  his  working  dress,  with 
his  fine  throat  bared  by  his  blue  shirt,  there  was  a 
splendid  vitality  about  her  lover  beside  which  Jon- 


252  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

athan  appeared  flabby  and  over- weighted  with  flesh. 
But  dressed  in  imitation  of  the  work  of  Gay's  London 
tailor,  the  miller  lost  the  distinction  which  nature  had 
given  him  without  acquiring  the  one  conferred  by 
society. 

"You  got  my  letter,  Molly?"  he  asked  —  and  the 
question  was  unfortunate,  for  it  reminded  her  not  only 
of  the  letter,  but  of  Gay's  innocent  jest  about  the  dove 
on  the  envelope.  She  had  been  ashamed  at  the  instant, 
and  she  was  ashamed  now  when  she  remembered  it, 
for  there  is  nothing  so  contagious  as  an  active  regard 
for  the  petty  social  values  of  life.  In  three  days  she 
had  not  only  begun  to  lose  her  own  crudeness  —  she 
had  attained  to  a  certain  small  criticism  of  the  crude- 
ness  of  Abel.  Already  the  difference  between  the 
two  men  was  irritating  her,  yet  she  was  still  uncon 
scious  as  to  the  exact  particular  in  which  this  difference 
lay.  Her  vision  had  perceived  the  broad  distinction 
of  class,  though  it  was  untrained  as  yet  to  detect 
minute  variations  of  manner.  She  knew  instinctively 
that  Gay  looked  a  man  of  the  world  and  Abel  a  rustic, 
but  this  did  not  shake  in  the  least  the  knowledge  that 
it  was  Abel,  not  Gay,  whom  she  loved. 

"Yes,  I  got  your  letter,"  she  answered,  and  then  she 
added  very  softly:  "Abel,  I've  always  known  I  was 
not  good  enough  for  you." 

Her  tone,  not  her  words,  checked  his  advance,  and 
he  stood  staring  at  her  in  perplexity.  It  was  this 
expression  of  dumb  questioning  which  had  so  often  re 
minded  her  of  the  look  in  the  eyes  of  Reuben's  hound, 
and  as  she  met  it  now,  she  flinched  a  little  from  the 
thought  of  the  pain  she  was  inflicting. 

"I'm  not  good  and  faithful,  Abel;  I'm  not  patient, 


LIFE'S  IRONIES  253 

I'm  not  thrifty,  I'm  not  anything  your  wife  ought  to 
be." 

"You're  all  I'm  wanting,  anyway,  Molly,"  he  re 
plied  quietly,  but  without  moving  toward  her. 

"I  feel  —  I  am  quite  sure  we  could  not  be  happy 
together,"  she  went  on  hurriedly,  as  if  in  fear  that  he 
might  interrupt  her  before  she  had  finished. 

"Do  you  mean  that  you  want  to  be  free?"  he 
asked  after  a  minute. 

"I  don't  know,  but  I  don't  want  to  marry  anybody. 
All  the  feeling  I  had  went  out  of  me  when  grand 
father  died  —  I've  been  benumbed  ever  since  —  and 
I  don't  want  to  feel  ever  again,  that's  the  worst  of  it." 

"Is  this  because  of  the  quarrel?" 

"Oh,  you  know  —  you  know,  I  was  always  like  this. 
I'm  a  thing  of  freedom  —  I  can't  be  caged,  and  so  we'd 
go  on  quarrelling  and  kissing,  kissing  and  quarrelling, 
until  I  went  out  of  my  mind.  You'd  want  to  make  me 
over  and  I'd  want  to  make  you  over,  like  two  foolish 
children  fighting  at  play." 

It  was  true  what  she  had  said,  and  he  realized  it, 
even  though  he  protested  against  it.  She  was  a  thing 
of  freedom  as  much  as  one  of  the  swallows  that  flashed 
by  in  the  sunlight. 

"And  you  don't  want  to  marry  me?  You  want  to 
be  free  —  to  be  rich?" 

"It  isn't  the  money  —  but  I  don't  want  to  marry." 

"Have  you  ever  loved  me,  I  wonder?"  he  asked 
a  little  bitterly. 

For  an  instant  she  hesitated,  trying  in  some  fierce 
self-reproach  to  be  honest.  "I  thought  so  once,  and 
I  suppose  I'll  think  so  again,"  she  answered.  "The 
truth  is  I've  loved  you  some  days,  and  some  days 


254  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

I  haven't.     I've  never  believed  much  in  it,  you  know 

—  I  wasn't  that  kind  of  woman.     It  always  meant  so 
much  less  to  me  than  to  others." 

It  was  true  again,  he  admitted  it.  She  had  never 
been  —  and  he  had  always  known  it  —  "that  kind  of 
woman."  She  had  safely  mocked  at  sex  only  because 
she  had  never  felt  its  significance.  From  the  depths 
of  his  misery,  he  told  himself,  while  he  faced  her,  that 
she  would  be  perfect  if  she  were  only  a  little  different 

—  if   she    were    only    "that   kind    of    woman."     She 
possessed  a  thousand  virtues,  he  was  aware;  she  was 
generous,  honourable  according    to    her    lights,  loyal, 
brave,  charitable,  and  unselfish.      But  it  is  the  woman 
of  a  single  virtue,  not  a  thousand,  that  a  man  exalts. 

"Yes,  I  suppose  it  always  meant  less  to  you  than 
to  others,"  he  repeated  dully. 

"It  wasn't  my  fault  —  why  do  you  blame  me?" 
she  responded  quickly.  "Men  hold  a  woman  to 
blame  when  she  doesn't  love,  however  ill  they  may 
use  her  as  soon  as  she  does  it.  Oh,  I  know  you're 
not  that  sort  —  you  needn't  explain  it.  You  are 
different,  and  this  is  why  I  am  half  loving  you  even 
now.  Last  night  when  I  awoke  and  heard  a  mocking 
bird  in  the  cedars,  I  told  myself  that  I  could  never  be 
happy  away  from  you.  But  when  the  light  came,  I 
wanted  to  see  the  world,  and  I  forgot  you.  I'm  only 
twenty -one.  I'm  too  young  to  tie  myself  down  forever." 

"My  mother  married  when  she  was  sixteen,"  he 
replied,  partly  because  he  could  think  of  nothing  else 
to  say  at  the  moment,  partly  because  he  honestly  enter 
tained  the  masculine  conviction  that  the  precedent  in 
some  way  constituted  an  argument. 

"And  a  sensible  marriage  it  was!"  retorted  Molly 


LIFE'S  IRONIES  255 

with  scorn.  "She's  had  a  hard  enough  lot  and  you 
know  it."  In  her  earnestness  she  had  almost  assumed 
the  position  of  Sarah's  champion. 

"Yes,  I  reckon  it  is,"  he  returned,  wounded  to  the 
quick.  "I've  no  right  to  ask  you  to  exchange  what 
they  offer  you  for  a  life  like  my  mother's." 

Fulness  of  emotion  lent  dignity  to  his  words,  but 
if  he  had  shown  indifference  instead  of  tenderness, 
it  would  probably  have  served  him  better.  She  was 
so  sure  of  Abel  —  so  ready  to  accept  as  a  matter  of 
course  the  fact  that  she  could  rely  on  him. 

"  So  you  want  it  to  be  all  over  between  us?  "  he  asked. 

"I  don't  want  to  be  tied  —  I  don't  think  I  ought  to 
be."  Her  tone  was  firm,  but  she  plucked  nervously 
at  a  bit  of  crape  on  the  sleeve  of  Mrs.  Gay's  gown. 

"Perhaps  you're  right,"  he  replied  quietly.  He 
had  spoken  in  a  stiff  and  constrained  manner,  with 
little  show  of  his  suffering,  yet  all  the  while  he  felt 
that  a  band  of  iron  was  fastened  across  his  brain, 
and  the  physical  effect  of  this  pressure  was  almost 
unendurable.  He  wanted  to  ease  his  swollen  heart  by 
some  passionate  outburst,  but  an  obstinate  instinct, 
which  was  beyond  his  control,  prevented  his  making 
a  ridiculous  display  of  his  emotion.  The  desire  to 
curse  aloud,  to  hurl  defiant  things  at  a  personal 
deity,  was  battling  within  him,  but  instead  of  yielding 
to  it  he  merely  repeated: 

"I  reckon  you're  right  —  it  wouldn't  be  fair  to 
you  in  the  end." 

"I  hope  you  haven't  any  hard  feeling  toward  me," 
she  said  presently,  sweetly  commonplace. 

"Oh,  no,  I  haven't  any  hard  feeling.  Good-bye, 
Molly." 


256  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

"Good-bye,  Abel." 

Turning  away  from  her,  he  walked  rapidly  back 
along  the  short  grassy  path  over  the  snowdrops.  As 
she  watched  him,  a  lump  rose  in  her  throat,  and  she 
asked  herself  what  would  happen  if  she  were  to  call 
after  him,  and,  when  he  looked  round,  run  straight 
into  his  arms?  She  wanted  to  run  into  his  arms,  but 
her  knowledge  of  herself  told  her  that  once  there  she 
would  not  want  to  stay.  The  sense  of  bondage  would 
follow  —  on  his  part  the  man's  effort  to  dominate; 
on  hers  the  woman's  struggle  for  the  integrity  of 
personality.  As  long  as  he  did  not  possess  her  she 
knew  that  emotion  would  remain  paramount  over 
judgment  —  that  the  longing  to  win  her  would  triumph 
over  the  desire  to  improve  what  he  had  won.  But 
once  surrendered,  the  very  strength  and  singleness  of 
his  love  would  bring  her  to  cage.  The  swallow  flights 
and  the  freedom  of  the  sky  would  be  over,  and  she 
would  either  beat  her  wings  hopelessly  against  the 
bars,  or  learn  to  eat  from  his  hand,  to  sing  presently  at 
his  whistle.  Had  passion  urged  her,  this  hesitancy 
would  have  been  impossible.  Then  she  would  either 
have  seen  none  of  these  things,  or,  having  seen  them, 
she  would  have  dared  greatly.  She  was  too  cool,  too 
clear-sighted,  perhaps,  for  a  heroine  of  romance.  The 
single  virtue  that  has  fed  vampire-like  on  the  blood  of 
the  others,  the  abject  attitude  to  the  heart,  the  moral 
chicanery  of  sex  —  she  would  have  none  of  these  things. 

"I  am  very  fond  of  him,  but  I  want  to  live  —  to 
live,"  she  said,  raising  her  arms  with  a  free  movement 
Lo  the  sky,  while  she  looked  after  his  figure.  "Poor 
Abel,"  she  added  after  a  moment,  "he  will  never  get 
over  it." 


LIFE'S  IRONIES  257 

Then,  while  the  sigh  of  compassion  was  still  on  hen 
lips,  she  was  arrested  by  a  scene  which  occurred 
in  the  sunny  meadow.  From  the  brook  a  woman's 
form  had  risen  like  a  startled  rabbit  at  Abel's  approach, 
wavering  against  the  background  of  willows,  as  if 
uncertain  whether  to  advance  or  to  retreat.  The  next 
instant,  as  though  in  obedience  to  some  mental  change, 
it  came  quickly  forward  and  faced  the  miller  with 
an  upward  movement  of  the  hands  to  shelter  a  weep 
ing  face. 

"I  believe  —  I  really  believe  it  is  Judy  Hatch," 
said  Molly  to  herself,  and  there  was  a  faint  displeasure 
in  her  voice.  "I  wonder  what  she  is  doing  hiding 
down  there  in  the  willows?" 

Judy  Hatch  it  was,  and  at  sight  of  Abel  she  had 
sprung  up  in  terror  from  the  edge  of  the  brook,  poised 
for  flight  like  a  wild  thing  before  the  gun  of  the  hunter. 
He  saw  that  her  eyes  were  red  and  swollen  from  weep 
ing,  her  face  puckered  and  distorted.  The  pain  in 
his  own  heart  was  so  acute  that  for  a  moment  he  felt 
a  sensation  of  relief  in  finding  that  he  was  not  alone 
in  his  agony  —  that  the  universal  portion  of  suffering 
had  not  been  allotted  entirely  to  himself,  as  he  had 
imagined.  Had  she  smiled,  he  would  have  brushed 
past  her  in  silence,  but  because  of  her  agitated  and 
despairing  look,  he  called  her  name,  and  when  she 
turned  toward  him  in  bewilderment,  held  out  his 
hand.  It  was  a  small  accident  that  brought  them  to 
gether  —  nothing  more  than  the  fact  that  she  had 
stooped  to  bathe  her  eyes  in  the  stream  before  going 
on  to  the  turnpike. 

"Don't  go,  Judy;  you're  in  trouble,  I  see,  and  so  am 
I,"  he  said  with  bitterness. 


258  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

"Oh  Mr.  Revercomb!"  she  blurted  out.  "I  didn't 
want  anybody  to  catch  me  in  such  a  pass!" 

"I'm  not  anybody,  Judy;  I'm  a  poor  devil  that 
was  born  without  sense  enough  to  plough  his  furrow 
straight." 

She  was  a  plain  woman,  but  a  pretty  one  would 
have  sent  him  off  in  a  panic  over  the  meadow.  He 
had  had  his  lesson  from  a  pretty  woman,  and  the 
immediate  effect  of  it  was  to  foster  the  delusion  that 
there  was  a  mysterious  affinity  between  ugliness  and 
virtue. 

"Tell  me  what  it  is,  Judy.  Can  I  help  you?"  he 
said  kindly. 

"It's  no  thin'.  I  am  always  in  trouble,"  she  an 
swered,  sobbing  outright  behind  her  sunbonnet. 
"Between  pa  and  my  stepmother,  there  isn't  a  spot 
on  earth  I  can  rest  in." 

She  looked  at  him  and  he  knew  immediately,  from 
her  look,  that  neither  Solomon  Hatch  nor  his  second 
wife  was  responsible  for  Judy's  unhappiness.  For  a 
mocking  instant  it  occurred  to  him  that  she  might 
have  cherished  a  secret  and  perfectly  hopeless  passion 
for  himself.  That  she  might  be  cherishing  this  passion 
for  another,  he  did  not  consider  at  the  moment  — 
though  the  truth  was  that  her  divinity  inhabited  not 
a  mill,  but  a  church,  and  was,  therefore,  she  felt, 
trebly  unapproachable.  But  her  worship  was  increased 
by  this  very  hopelessness,  this  elevation.  It  pleased 
her  that  the  object  of  her  adoration  should  bend  al 
ways  above  her  —  that  in  her  dreams  he  should  preach 
a  perpetual  sermon  and  wear  an  imperishable  surplice. 

"Well,  I'm  sorry  for  you,"  said  Abel;  "I'm  sorry 
for  you."  And  indeed  he  was.  "You're  a  good,  pious, 


LIFE'S  IRONIES  259 

virtuous  girl  —  just  the  sort  of  girl  a  man  would  want 
for  his  wife." 

"I  try  to  be  good  and  I  don't  see  why  I  should  be 
so  —  so  unhappy,"  sobbed  Judy.  "There  ain't  a 
better  hand  for  raisin'  chickens  and  flowers  and  young 
lambs  in  the  county." 

Again  she  looked  up  at  him  through  her  tears,  and 
the  fool  that  lies  at  the  bottom  of  all  generous  hearts 
rose  instantly  to  her  bait.  As  he  had  once  been  the 
sport  of  his  desire,  so  he  was  to  become  now  the  sport 
of  his  pity. 

"Any  man  ought  to  be  proud  to  have  you  for  his 
wife,  Judy,"  he  said. 

"Ought  they,  Abel?"  she  replied  passionately,  with 
the  vision  of  the  Reverend  Orlando  rising  in  serene 
detachment  before  her. 

For  a  moment  he  gazed  down  at  her  without  speak 
ing.  It  was  pleasant  to  feel  pity;  it  was  more  than 
pleasant  to  receive  gratitude  in  return.  On  the  raw 
wound  in  his  heart  something  that  was  almost  like  a 
cooling  balm  had  been  poured. 

"God  knows  I'm  sorry  for  you,  Judy,"  he  repeated; 
"we're  both  in  the  same  boat,  so  I  ought  to  be.  Come 
to  me  if  I  can  ever  help  you,  and  you'll  find  you  may 
count  on  my  word." 

"I  —  I'll  remember,  Abel,"  she  answered  tearfully, 
but  her  thoughts  were  of  a  certain  pair  of  purple 
velvet  slippers,  begun  in  rivalry  of  Blossom's  black 
ones,  which  she  was  embroidering  in  pansies. 

As  he  turned  away  from  her  into  the  crowd  of  silver 
willows  beside  the  brook,  she  stood  looking  after  him 
with  the  abstracted  gaze  of  one  who  dwells  not  in  the 
world  of  objects,  but  in  the  exalted  realm  of  visions. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

IN  WHICH  PITY  MASQUERADES  AS  REASON 

As  ABEL  crossed  the  poplar  log  he  said  to  himself, 
"I  shall  not  think  of  Her  again";  when  he  reached  the 
end  of  the  willows  he  said,  "I  must  not  think  of  Her 
again";  and  at  the  beginning  of  the  kitchen  garden, 
he  changed  this  to,  "I  will  not  think  of  Her  again." 

The  scent  of  hyacinths,  which  floated  from  a  row 
blooming  on  either  side  of  the  white  paling  gate,  whip 
ped  his  senses  into  revolt,  and  he  quickened  his  steps 
in  a  vain  effort  to  escape  from  the  tormenting  fra 
grance.  Yet  even  while  he  fled  from  his  pain  he  knew 
in  his  heart  that  he  did  not  desire  the  strength  to  turn 
and  renounce  it  —  that  to  banish  the  image  of  Molly 
from  his  thoughts  was  to  drive  the  bloom  from  the 
meadow,  the  perfume  from  the  air,  the  sunlight  from 
the  orchard.  Spring  became  as  desolate  as  winter 
when  it  was  robbed  of  the  thought  of  her. 

By  the  house  a  late  pear-tree  was  in  blossom, 
and  the  sunshine,  falling  obliquely  across  it,  awoke 
a  white  fire  in  its  branches,  as  if  piles  of  new  fallen 
snow  had  warmed  suddenly  to  a  reflected  flame. 
Beneath  it  Sarah  Revercomb  was  sowing  portulaca 
seeds  in  a  rockery  she  had  made  over  a  decaying  stump. 
Her  back  was  strained  with  bending,  but  not  once 
had  she  stopped  to  gaze  at  the  glorified  pear-tree 
overhead.  All  her  life  she  had  distinguished  carefully 
between  the  aristocracy  and  the  common  herd  of 

260 


PITY  MASQUERADES  AS  REASON          261 

blossoms,  and  not  all  the  magic  gilding  of  the  spring 
sunshine  could  delude  her  into  regarding  the  useful 
product  of  a  fruit-tree  as  a  flower. 

"I  don't  see  why  you  want  to  go  wearin'  yo'  Sunday 
clothes  every  day,  Abel,"  she  observed  as  he  was  about 
to  pass  her. 

"Why  shouldn't  I?"  he  retorted  with  the  defiance 
of  despair. 

Something  in  his  voice  caused  the  woman  who  had 
borne  him  to  raise  herself  from  her  stooping  posture, 
and  stare  at  him  with  an  amazed  and  incredulous  ex 
pression,  as  if  she  were  asking  herself  when  and  where 
she  could  have  given  him  birth.  In  her  mental  vision, 
which  saw  only  one  thing  at  a  time,  but  saw  that  thing 
with  great  distinctness,  the  idea  of  love  slowly  pre 
sented  itself  as  the  cause  of  such  a  reversal  of  the 
natural  order  as  a  Sunday  suit  on  week  days.  Her 
conceptions  of  life  were  derived  so  closely  from  facts, 
or  from  a  logic  as  inexorable  as  facts,  that  she  was 
conscious  of  a  baffled  and  exasperated  sensation  when 
she  was  confronted  by  anything  intangible  which  would 
not,  as  she  put  it  in  her  own  mind,  "get  out  of  her  way." 
It  was  natural  enough,  she  knew,  that  a  material  ob 
ject  or  condition  should  possess  the  power  to  block 
one's  progress  or  even  to  change  the  normal  current 
of  one's  existence.  Such  things  had  happened  a 
dozen  times  at  least  in  her  limited  experience.  But 
when  a  mere  emotion  assumed  the  importance  and  the 
reality  of  a  solid  body,  she  was  seized  by  the  indig 
nant  astonishment  with  which  a  mathematician  might 
regard  the  differential  calculus  if  it  ceased  suddenly 
to  behave  as  he  expected  it  to  do.  She  had  always 
controlled  her  own  feelings  with  severity,  and  it  was 


THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

beyond  the  power  of  her  imagination  to  conceive  a 
possible  excuse  —  unless  it  was  a  disordered  liver  — 
for  another  person's  inability  to  do  the  same.  Be 
sides,  as  she  had  often  asked  herself,  what  was  the 
use  of  not  controlling  your  feelings  when  you  came 
to  think  about  it? 

"Thar  ain't  a  bit  of  use  in  yo'  goin'  on  this  way 
over  that  girl,  Abel,"  she  said  presently,  as  an  anno 
tation  to  his  last  remark,  "you'd  better  jest  start 
along  about  yo '  work,  an '  put  her  right  straight  out 
of  yo'  mind.  I  al'ays  knew  thar  warn't  a  particle  of 
sense  in  it." 

There  was  sound  reason  in  her  advice,  and  he  did 
not  attempt  to  dispute  it.  The  unfortunate  part  was, 
however,  that  in  the  very  soundness  of  her  reason  lay 
its  point  of  offence.  Philosophy  was  dealing  again 
in  her  high  handed  fashion  with  emotion,  and  emotion, 
in  its  turn,  was  treating  philosophy  with  an  absence 
of  that  respectful  consideration  to  which  she  was  en 
titled.  Abel  knew  quite  as  well  as  Sarah  that  there 
wasn't  "a  particle  of  sense"  in  his  thinking  of  Molly; 
but  the  possession  of  this  knowledge  did  not  interfere 
in  the  least  with  either  the  intensity  or  the  persistence 
of  his  thought  of  her.  His  mind  seemed  to  have  as 
much  control  over  the  passion  that  raged  in  his  heart 
as  an  admonishing  apostle  of  peace  has  over  a  mob  that 
is  headed  toward  destruction.  At  the  moment  he  felt 
that  the  last  straw  —  the  one  burden  more  that  he  could 
not  bear  —  was  to  be  told  to  follow  what  he  admitted 
to  be  the  only  clear  and  rational  course.  Turning  away 
from  her  without  a  reply,  he  rushed  through  the  open 
gate  and  across  the  road  and  the  poplar  log  into  the 
friendly  shelter  of  his  mill. 


PITY  MASQUERADES  AS  REASON          263 

"What  he  needs  is  to  wear  himself  out  and  to  settle 
down  into  a  sort  of  quiet  despair,"  thought  Sarah  as 
she  looked  after  him.  Then  lifting  her  trowel,  she 
returned  with  a  sigh  to  the  sowing  of  portulaca  seeds 
in  her  rockery. 

In  the  twilight  of  the  mill,  where  he  was  hunted 
through  the  door  by  the  scent  of  flowers,  he  went 
over  to  the  shelf  of  books  in  a  corner,  and  taking  down 
the  volumes  one  by  one,  turned  their  leaves  with  a 
trembling  and  eager  hand,  as  though  he  were  seeking 
some  thought  so  strong,  so  steadying,  that  once  having 
secured  it,  the  rush  of  his  passion  would  beat  in  vain 
against  its  impregnable  barrier.  But  the  books,  like 
Sarah,  treated  life  in  the  grand  manner  and  with  the 
fine  detachment  of  philosophy.  He  could  get  no  as 
sistance  from  them,  because  they  only  told  him  that 
he  would  be  better  and  happier  if  he  acted  always  as  a 
rational  being,  and  this  did  not  help  him.  They 
told  him,  also,  in  what  seemed  a  burst  of  unanimity, 
that  human  nature  would  be  better  and  happier  if  it 
were  not  human  nature,  but  something  else.  Some 
of  the  writers  believed  that  this  result  might  be  at 
tained  by  making  many  laws  and  some  of  them  were 
of  the  opinion  that  the  way  to  it  was  to  undo  a  majority 
of  the  laws  that  were  already  made.  All  admitted 
that  the  world  was  very  badly  off  and  that  something 
must  be  done,  and  done  very  quickly,  to  relieve  it  —  but 
the  trouble  was  that  each  writer's  remedy  was  differ 
ent  from  every  other  writer's,  and  yet  each  writer's 
was  the  imperative,  the  essential  one.  There  was  a 
single  point  on  which  they  agreed,  and  that  was  that 
human  nature  would  be  better  and  happier  if  it  were 
different.  But  poor  human  nature,  having  known 


«64  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

this  ever  since  it  left  the  tree-tops,  went  on,  just  the 
same,  being  all  the  time  the  thing  that  it  was  obliged 
to  be. 

"There's  no  help  for  me  here,"  said  Abel,  and  moving 
away  from  the  shelf,  he  leaned  his  arms  in  the  window, 
and  looked  out  on  the  dripping  wheel  and  the  crooked 
sycamore,  which  was  decorated  with  little  round  green 
ish  balls  of  flowers.  On  the  hot  agony  in  his  heart  the 
languorous  Southern  spring  laid  a  cooling  and  delicate 
touch.  Beneath  the  throb  of  his  pain  he  felt  the 
stirring  of  formless,  indefinite  longings,  half  spiritual, 
half  physical,  which  seemed  older  and  more  universal 
than  his  immediate  suffering. 

For  six  weeks  the  canker  gnawed  at  his  heart,  and 
he  gave  no  sign  of  its  presence.  Then  relief  came  to 
him  for  a  few  hours  one  day  when  he  drifted  into  a 
local  meeting  in  Applegate  and  entered  into  a  discus 
sion  of  politics.  At  the  end  he  spoke  for  twenty 
minutes,  and  when  his  speech  was  over,  he  told  him 
self  that  at  last  he  had  found  something  that  might 
take  the  place  of  love  in  his  life.  The  game  of  politics 
showed  itself  to  him  in  all  the  exciting  allurement  of  a 
passion. 

A  gentle  mannered  old  clergyman,  with  a  dream- 
haunted  face  and  the  patient  waiting  attitude  of  one 
who  had  watched  for  miracles  for  fifty  years,  spoke 
to  him  when  the  meeting  was  breaking  up,  and  after 
a  brief  conversation,  invited  him  to  address  a  club 
of  workingmen  on  the  following  Friday.  Though 
the  old  clergyman  had  spent  half  a  century  in  a  futile 
endeavour  to  persuade  every  man  to  love  his  neighbour 
as  himself,  and  thereby  save  society  the  worry  and  the 
expense  of  its  criminal  code,  he  still  hoped  on  with 


PITY  MASQUERADES  AS  REASON  265 

the  divine  far-sighted  hope  of  the  visionary  —  hoped 
not  because  he  saw  anything  particularly  encouraging 
in  his  immediate  outlook,  but  because  it  was  his  nature 
to  hope  and  he  would  probably  have  continued  to  do 
so  had  Fate  been  so  unjust  as  to  consign  him  to  an 
Inferno.  He  was  one  of  those  in  whom  goodness  is  a 
natural  instinct,  and  whose  existence,  even  in  a  more 
or  less  inglorious  obscurity,  leavens  the  entire  lump 
of  humanity.  Mr.  Mullen,  who  regarded  him  with 
the  active  suspicion  with  which  he  viewed  all  living  ex 
amples  of  Christian  charity,  spoke  of  him  condescend 
ingly  as  a  "man  of  impracticable  ideas"  —  a  phrase 
which  introduced  his  index  prohibitory  of  opinions. 
But  the  old  clergyman,  having  attained  a  serviceable 
sense  of  humour,  as  well  as  a  heavenly  fortitude,  went 
on  quietly  doing  good  after  the  fashion  in  which  he 
was  made.  In  his  impracticable  way  he  had  solved 
the  problem  of  life  by  an  indiscriminate  applica 
tion  of  the  Golden  Rule.  This  solution  had  appeared 
to  him  so  simple  and  yet  so  complete,  that  he  had 
spent  fifty  years,  with  but  moderate  success,  in  per 
suading  others  to  adopt  it.  At  the  end  he  was  not 
what  Mr.  Mullen  would  have  called  a  "shining  light/' 
in  the  Church,  yet  his  bread  cast  upon  the  waters  had 
returned  to  him  in  quantities,  which,  though  small 
and  moist,  were  sufficient,  with  stringent  economy, 
to  keep  body  and  soul  together.  One  of  these  quanti 
ties  he  discerned  now  in  the  eager  young  countryman, 
whose  face  accompanied  him  through  a  trying  day, 
and  helped  to  brighten  his  self-sacrificing  labours. 

To  Abel,  driving  home  some  hours  later  in  his  gig, 
the  old  clergyman  was  present  less  as  a  mental  image, 
than  as  a  vague  yet  impelling  influence  for  good.  The 


THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

impression  was  still  in  his  thoughts,  when  he  overtook 
Judy  Hatch  a  mile  or  two  before  reaching  the  cross 
roads,  and  stopped  to  ask  her  to  drive  with  him  as 
far  as  her  cottage.  At  sight  of  her  wan  and  haggard 
face,  he  felt  again  that  impulse  of  pity,  which  seemed 
while  it  lasted  to  appease  the  violence  of  his  suffering. 

"I  haven't  seen  you  to  speak  to  for  a  long  time," 
he  observed,  as  she  mounted  over  the  wheel  to  her 
place  at  his  side. 

"Not  since  that  day  by  the  brook,"  she  answered, 
and  he  flinched  as  if  a  raw  wound  had  been  touched. 

Though  she  did  not  look  at  him,  he  was  conscious, 
through  some  subtle  undercurrent  of  feeling,  that  her 
spirit  was  drenched  with  the  young  summer,  with  the 
pulsing  life  of  the  June  forest  and  the  scent  of  wild 
grape  and  honeysuckle  which  filled  the  air.  Her 
face  was  lifted  to  the  fluted  leaves  of  a  sycamore, 
from  which  the  song  of  a  thrush  rippled  like  running 
water,  and  there  was  the  rapt  and  holy  look  in  her 
eyes  which  gave  her,  if  he  had  only  known  it,  a  like 
ness  to  one  of  the  minor  saints  in  a  primitive  Italian 
painting.  So  little,  however,  did  her  passion  use  her 
body  as  its  medium  that,  after  glancing  casually  at 
her  parted  lips,  he  decided  that  she  was  probably 
counting  the  eggs  she  had  set  to  hatch  in  her  hen-house, 
and  hesitated  to  interrupt  the  absorbing  business  of 
her  calculations.  Mentally,  he  regarded  her  with  the 
ungrudging  respect  which  a  man  of  any  sort  instinc 
tively  yields  to  a  woman  who  obviously  disdains  to 
ensnare  his  judgment  in  the  mesh  of  his  senses.  The 
palpitations  of  her  spirit  were  communicated  to  him 
in  so  elusive  a  process,  that,  even  while  he  felt  the  stir 
of  his  pulses,  he  was  not  aware  that  it  was  due  in  any 


PITY  MASQUERADES  AS  REASON          267 

measure  to  the  woman  at  his  side.  If  she  had  been 
pretty  —  if  she  had  been  even  attractively  plain  —  it 
would  hardly  have  occurred  to  him  that  her  intense  and 
breathless  expression  was  associated  with  the  hatching 
of  chickens;  but,  like  other  philosophers  of  whom  he 
had  never  heard,  it  was  impossible  for  him  to  dis 
tinguish  the  qualities  of  the  thing-in-itself  from  the 
qualities  of  the  phenomenon  beneath  his  eyes.  Had 
he  winnowed  his  superficial  impressions  the  under 
lying  thought  would  probably  have  been:  "No  woman 
with  a  bosom  as  flat  as  that  can  have  any  nonsense 
about  her."  From  the  first  moment  of  their  meeting 
he  had  never  doubted  that  it  was  this  lack  of  "non 
sense"  which  had  attracted  him.  He  liked  her  evident 
indifference  to  his  opinion  of  her,  and  he  liked,  too, 
her  listless  silence,  when  she  sat,  with  clasped  hands, 
gazing  straight  ahead  through  the  shadowy  colonnade 
of  the  woods.  Not  once  had  her  troubled  look  wan 
dered  from  the  moist  dead  leaves  on  the  ground,  to  the 
misty  edges  of  the  forest,  where  small  wild  flowers 
thronged  in  a  pale  procession  of  pipsissewa,  ladies' 
tresses,  and  Enchanter's  nightshade. 

"Did  you  know  that  the  Gays  are  in  Europe?" 
asked  Judy,  turning  her  eyes  on  his  face  for  the  first 
time. 

His  heart  gave  a  throb  and  was  quiet. 

"No,  I  hadn't  heard  it,"  he  replied  in  an  arid  voice. 

"They  say  it's  more  than  likely  Molly  will  marry 
Mr.  Jonathan.  He's  waitin'  on  her." 

Reaching  for  the  whip,  Abel  touched  the  mare 
lightly  on  her  glossy  flank.  After  that  single  pang 
his  suffering  had  left  him  —  for  six  weeks  of  sleepless 
nights  and  tormented  days  had  exhausted  his  endurance 


268  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

and  reduced  him  to  a  condition  of  emotional  lassitude. 
In  his  brief  reaction  from  spiritual  revolt  into  a  state 
of  apathetic  submission,  he  approached  his  mother's 
permanent  austerity  of  mind  as  closely  as  he  was  ever 
likely  to  do  in  the  whole  of  his  experience.  The  mere 
possibility  of  a  fresh  awakening  of  feeling  filled  him 
with  aversion.  At  the  moment  he  had  as  profound  a 
distrust  as  Sarah  of  the  immaterial  elements;  and 
looking  ahead,  he  saw  his  future  stretching  before  him 
as  firm  and  flat  as  the  turnpike  which  he  was  approach 
ing.  Delight  and  despair  were  equally  distasteful  to 
him.  He  shrank  as  instinctively  from  the  thought  of 
love  as  a  man  shrinks  from  re-opening  an  old  wound 
which  is  still  sensitive  to  the  touch,  though  it  has  ceased 
to  ache.  And  so  prone  is  human  nature  to  affirm 
its  inherent  belief  in  the  eternity  of  the  present,  that 
he  was  assured,  not  only  that  this  was  the  most  de 
sirable  point  of  view  he  had  ever  reached,  but  that  it 
was  entirely  out  of  the  question  that  he  should  ever 
travel  beyond  it  to  another.  Forgetting  the  many 
times  when  he  had  revolted  from  advice  merely  be 
cause  it  was  "sensible,"  he  began  calmly  to  arrange 
his  life  in  accordance  with  that  law  of  practical  ex 
pediency  against  which  a  month  ago  he  had  so  hotly 
rebelled. 

As  they  drove  out  of  the  woods,  and  turned  into 
the  sunken  road  beyond  the  ordinary  which  led  in 
the  direction  of  Solomon  Hatch's  farm,  he  withdrew 
his  gaze  from  the  head  of  his  mare  and  looked  atten 
tively  at  his  companion. 

"  I  hope  you  are  having  an  easier  time,  Judy,"  he  said. 

Her  eyes  brimmed.  "You  are  the  only  person  who 
cares  about  that,  Abel." 


PITY  MASQUERADES  AS  REASON  269 

"Why  shouldn't  I  care?  You  are  the  best  and  the 
cleverest  girl  I  know,"  he  returned. 

Her  gratitude  fanned  his  sympathy,  which  was  be 
ginning  to  smoulder,  and  he  felt  again  the  pleasant 
sense  of  being  in  the  position  of  the  benefactor  rather 
than  of  the  benefited.  His  eyes  rested  without 
shrinking  on  her  sallow  face,  with  the  faint  bluish 
tinge  to  the  eyelids,  and  on  her  scant  drab  coloured 
hair,  which  was  combed  smoothly  back  from  her 
forehead  —  and  while  he  looked  his  pity  clothed 
itself  in  the  softer  and  gentler  aspect  of  reason.  "She 
ought  to  be  happy,"  he  thought.  "It's  a  shame  they 
should  lead  her  such  a  life!  It's  a  shame  some  good 
man  doesn't  fall  in  love  with  her  and  marry  her.  She's 
really  not  so  plain,  after  all.  I've  seen  many  women 
who  were  worse  looking  than  she  is."  Unknown  to 
him,  an  illusion  was  gradually  shedding  colour  and 
warmth  on  his  vision  of  her.  Mentally,  he  had  en 
dowed  her  with  all  the  sober  and  saner  virtues  to 
which  his  present  mood  was  committed  —  though 
he  had,  in  reality,  no  better  reason  for  so  doing  than 
the  fact  that  she  evidently  esteemed  him  and  that 
she  was  deserving  of  pity.  The  discordant  forces 
of  passion  no  longer  disturbed  the  calm  and  orderly 
processes  of  his  mind,  and  he  told  himself  that  he 
saw  clearly,  because  he  saw  stark  images  of  facts, 
stripped  not  only  of  the  glamour  of  light  and  shade,  but 
even  of  the  body  of  flesh  and  blood.  Life  spread 
before  him  like  a  geometrical  figure,  constructed  of 
perfect  circles  and  absolutely  conformable  to  the 
rules  and  the  principles  of  mathematics.  That  these 
perfect  circles  should  ever  run  wild  and  become  a 
square  was  clearly  unthinkable.  Because  his  nature 


270  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

was  now  quiescent  it  was  impossible  for  him  to  con 
ceive  of  it  in  motion. 

And  all  the  while,  in  that  silence,  which  seemed  so 
harmless  while  it  was,  in  reality,  so  dangerous,  the 
repressed  yet  violent  force  in  Judy  wrought  on  his 
mood  in  which  bare  sense  and  bare  thought  were 
unprotected  by  any  covering  of  the  love  which  had 
clothed  them  as  far  back  as  he  could  remember.  That 
breathless,  palpitating  appeal  for  happiness  —  an 
appeal  which  is  as  separate  from  beauty  as  the  body 
of  flesh  is  separate  from  the  garment  it  wears  —  was 
drawing  him  slowly  yet  inevitably  toward  the  woman 
at  his  side.  Her  silence  —  charged  as  it  was  with  the 
intoxicating  spirit  of  June  —  had  served  the  purpose 
of  life  as  neither  words  nor  gestures  could  have 
done.  It  had  reconciled  him  to  her  presence  in  the 
very  moment  that  made  him  conscious  of  the  strength 
of  his  pity. 

Presently,  as  they  drove  through  the  burned  out 
clearing,  she  spoke  again. 

"I  wonder  why  you  are  always  so  good  to  nie, 
Abel?" 

He  liked  the  honest  sound  of  the  words,  and  he  did 
nor  know  that  before  uttering  them  she  had  debated 
in  her  heart  whether  it  was  worth  while  to  marry 
Abel  since  she  could  not  marry  Mr.  Mullen.  Marriage, 
having  few  illusions  for  her,  possessed,  perhaps  for 
that  reason,  the  greater  practical  value.  She  was 
unhappy  with  her  stepmother  in  a  negative  way, 
but  so  impervious  had  she  become  to  casual  annoy 
ances,  that  she  hardly  weighed  the  disadvantages  of 
her  home  against  the  probable  relinquishment  of  Mrs. 
Mullen's  washing  day  after  her  marriage  to  Abel. 


PITY  MASQUERADES  AS  REASON          271 

Her  soul  was  crushed  like  a  trapped  creature  in  the 
iron  grip  of  a  hopeless  passion,  and  her  insensibility 
to  the  lesser  troubles  of  life  was  but  the  insensibility 
of  such  a  creature  to  the  stings  of  the  insects  swarming 
around  its  head.  The  outcome  of  her  drive  with  Abel 
aroused  only  a  dull  curiosity  in  her  mind.  Some  years 
ago,  in  the  days  before  Mr.  Mullen,  she  would  probably 
have  fallen  a  helpless  victim  to  the  miller  had  his 
eyes  wandered  for  an  instant  in  her  direction.  But 
those  days  and  that  probability  were  now  over  forever. 

Unfortunately,  however,  it  is  not  given  to  a  man  to 
look  into  the  soul  of  a  woman  except  through  the 
inscrutable  veil  of  his  own  personality.  Had  Abel 
pierced  that  purple  calico  dress  and  witnessed  the 
pathetic  struggle  in  Judy's  bosom,  his  next  words 
would  hardly  have  been  uttered. 

"I  wish  I  could  do  something  to  make  you  happier, 
Judy." 

She  looked  at  him  with  mysterious,  brooding  eyes, 
and  he  was  conscious  again  of  the  attraction,  as  subtile 
and  as  penetrating  as  a  perfume,  which  she  exhaled 
in  the  stillness,  and  which  vanished  as  soon  as  she 
broke  the  quivering  intensity  of  the  silence.  That 
this  attraction  was  merely  the  unconscious  vibration 
of  her  passion  for  another  man,  which  shed  its  essence 
in  solitude  as  naturally  as  a  flower  sheds  its  scent, 
did  not  occur  to  him.  Without  his  newly  awakened 
pity  it  could  not  have  moved  him.  With  it  he  felt 
that  he  was  powerless  to  resist  its  appeal. 

"  Why  shouldn't  I  be  good  to  you,  Judy?"  he  re 
peated. 

Tears  overflowed  her  eyes  at  his  words.  Looking 
at  her,  he  saw  her  not  as  she  was,  but  as  he  desired 


272  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

that  she  should  be;  and  this  desire,  he  knew,  sprang 
from  his  loneliness  and  from  his  need  of  giving  sym 
pathy  to  some  one  outside  of  himself.  The  illusion 
that  surrounded  her  bore  no  resemblance  to  the  illusion 
of  love  —  yet  it  was  akin  to  it  in  the  swiftness  and  the 
completeness  with  which  it  was  born.  If  any  one 
had  told  him  an  hour  ago  that  he  was  on  the  verge 
of  marriage  to  Judy,  he  would  have  scoffed  at  the  idea 
—  he  who  was  the  heartbroken  lover  of  Molly !  Yet 
this  sudden  protecting  pity  was  so  strong  that  he 
found  himself  playing  with  the  thought  of  marriage, 
as  one  plays  in  lofty  moments  with  the  idea  of  a  not 
altogether  unpleasant  self-abnegation.  He  did  not 
love  Judy,  but  he  was  conscious  of  an  overwhelming 
desire  to  make  Judy  happy  —  and  like  all  desires 
which  are  conceived  in  a  fog  of  uncertainty,  its  ulti 
mate  form  depended  less  upon  himself  than  it  did  upon 
the  outward  pressure  of  circumstances. 

"I  sometimes  think  it's  more  than  anybody  can 
stand  to  go  on  living  as  I  do,"  said  Judy,  breaking 
the  silence,  "to  slave  an'  slave  an'  never  to  get  so 
much  as  a  word  of  thanks  for  it." 

For  a  moment  he  said  nothing.  Then  turning  he 
looked  hard  into  her  humid  eyes,  and  what  he  saw 
there  made  him  bend  over  and  take  her  hand. 

"Do  you  think  I  could  make  you  happier,  Judy?" 
he  asked. 


BOOK    SECOND 
THE    CROSS-ROADS 


CHAPTER  I 

IN  WHICH  YOUTH  SHOWS  A  LITTLE  SEASONED 

SOME  six  months  after  Abel's  parting  from  Molly, 
he  might  have  been  seen  crossing  the  lawn  at  Jordan's 
Journey  on  a  windy  November  morning,  and  even 
to  a  superficial  observer  it  would  have  been  evident 
that  certain  subtle  modifications  had  been  at  work 
in  his  soul.  Disappointed  love  had  achieved  this 
result  with  a  thoroughness  which  victorious  love 
could  not  have  surpassed.  Because  he  had  lost 
Molly,  he  had  resolved,  in  his  returning  sanity,  that 
he  would  make  of  himself  the  man  who  might 
have  won  Molly  had  she  known  him  in  his  complete 
ness.  And  in  the  act  of  resolving,  his  character  had 
begun  to  ripen  into  the  mellowness  of  maturity. 

The  day  was  bleak,  and  something  of  this  external 
bleakness  was  reflected  in  the  look  which  he  raised  to 
the  ivy  draped  dormer-windows  in  the  hooded  roof. 
Small  greyish  clouds  were  scudding  low  above  the 
western  horizon,  and  the  sorrel  waste  of  broomsedge 
was  rolling  high  as  a  sea.  The  birds,  as  they  skimmed 
over  this  billowy  expanse,  appeared  blown,  despite 
their  efforts,  on  the  wind  that  swept  in  gusts  out  of 
the  west.  On  the  lawn  at  Jordan's  Journey  the 
fallen  leaves  were  dancing  madly  like  a  carnival 
in  rough  carousal.  Watching  them  it  was  easy  to 
imagine  that  they  found  some  frenzied  joy  in  this 
dance  of  death  —  the  end  to  which  they  had  moved 

275 


S76  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

from  the  young  green  of  the  bud  through  the  opulent 
abundance  of  the  summer.  The  air  was  alive  with  their 
sighing.  They  rustled  softly  under  foot  as  Abel 
walked  up  the  drive,  and  then,  whipped  by  a  strong 
gust,  fled  in  purple  and  wine-coloured  multitudes 
to  the  shelter  of  the  box  hedges,  or,  rising  in  flight 
above  the  naked  boughs,  beat  against  the  closed 
shutters  before  they  came  to  rest  against  the  square 
brick  chimneys  on  the  roof. 

Beneath  the  trees  a  solitary  old  negro  was  spreading 
manure  over  the  grass,  hauling  it  in  a  wheelbarrow 
from  a  pile  somewhere  in  the  barnyard.  Back  and 
forth  he  passed,  scattering  the  fine  manure  from  his 
spade  until  the  wheelbarrow  was  empty,  when  he 
replenished  it  in  the  barnyard  and  returned  to  his 
sprinkling.  All  the  while  he  smoked  steadily  a  long 
corncob  pipe,  and  to  watch  him  at  his  task,  was  to 
receive  an  impression  that  the  hauling  of  manure  was 
sufficient  to  fill  one's  life  with  dignity  and  contentment. 
The  work  appeared  no  longer  a  menial  employment, 
but  a  sober  and  serious  share  of  the  great  problem  of 
production. 

"That's  the  way  I  intend  to  go  about  the  work  of 
my  mill,"  thought  Abel,  as  he  watched  him.  "When 
you  do  it  like  that  it  really  makes  very  little  difference 
what  you  are  doing.  It  all  comes  to  good. "  A  minute 
before  his  thoughts  had  been  on  the  new  roller  mill 
he  had  recently  bought  and  was  now  working  in  his 
primitive  little  building,  which  he  had  slightly  remod 
elled.  The  next  thing  to  go,  he  supposed,  would  be 
the  old  wooden  wheel,  with  its  brilliant  enamel  of 
moss,  and  within  five  years  he  hoped  to  complete  the 
reconstruction  of  his  machinery  on  lines  that  were 


YOUTH  SHOWS  A  LITTLE  SEASONED      277 

scientific  rather  than  picturesque.  His  water  power 
was  good,  and  by  the  time  he  could  afford  an  entire 
modern  equipment,  he  would  probably  have  all  the 
grain  at  his  door  that  he  was  ready  to  handle.  Then 
he  began  to  wonder,  as  he  had  often  done  of  late,  if 
the  work  of  the  farm  and  the  mill  might  be  left  safely  to 
Abner  and  Archie  when  he  went  up  to  Richmond  to  the 
General  Assembly,  in  the  event  of  his  future  election? 
Already  he  had  achieved  a  modest  local  fame  as  a 
speaker  —  for  his  voice  expressed  the  gradual  political 
awakening  of  his  class.  Though  he  was  in  advance 
of  his  age,  it  was  evident,  even  to  the  drowsy-eyed, 
that  he  was  moving  in  the  direction  whither  lagging 
progress  was  bound.  In  the  last  eighteen  months 
he  had  devoured  the  books  of  the  political  economists, 
and  he  had  sucked  in  theories  of  social  philosophy 
as  a  child  sucks  in  milk.  That  the  business  of  the 
politician  is  not  to  reshape  theories,  but  to  readjust 
conditions  he  was  ready  to  admit,  yet  impelled  by 
a  strong  religious  conviction,  by  a  belief  in  the  deter 
mining  power  of  a  practical  Christianity,  he  was 
sharing  the  slowly  expanding  dream  of  his  century 
—  the  dream  of  a  poverty  enriched  by  knowledge, 
of  a  social  regeneration  that  would  follow  an  enlight 
ened  and  instructed  proletariat.  Ripples  from  the 
thought  waves  of  the  world  had  reached  him  in  the 
dusty  corners  of  his  mill  at  Old  Church.  Since  no  man 
thinketh  to  himself,  he  could  no  more  have  escaped 
the  mental  impulsion  of  his  time  than  he  could  have 
arrested  his  embryonic  development  from  the  inverte 
brate  to  the  vertebrate.  His  mind  being  open,  ideas 
had  entered,  and  having  entered,  they  had  proceeded 
immediately  to  take  active  possession.  He  was  serv- 


278  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

ing  a  distant  Utopia  of  industrial  democracy  as  ar 
dently  as  a  lover  serves  his  mistress. 

As  for  his  actual  mistress,  she  had  become  not  only 
visionary,  but  enskied.  Some  months  ago,  while  his 
wound  was  still  fresh,  he  had  not  suffered  his  thoughts 
to  dwell  on  her  because  of  the  violence  of  the  pain. 
Pride  as  well  as  common  sense,  he  had  told  himself 
during  the  first  weeks  of  his  loss,  demanded  that  he 
should  banish  her  image  from  his  mind.  Though  he 
had  never,  even  in  his  first  anger,  called  her  "a  light 
woman,"  he  had  come  perilously  near  the  feeling  that 
she  had  grazed  the  skirts  of  impropriety  with  a  reck 
lessness  which  no  sober  minded  son  of  Sarah  Rever- 
comb  could  countenance  for  a  minute.  His  very 
success  as  a  miller  depended  upon  an  integrity  of 
character  which  permitted  no  compromise  with  the 
fundamental  moralities.  Youth  is  the  period  of  harsh 
judgments,  and  a  man  seldom  learns  until  he  reaches 
thirty  that  human  nature  is  made  up  not  of  simples, 
but  of  compounds.  What  Abel  had  never  divined 
was  that  Molly,  like  himself,  might  approach  the 
angelic  in  one  mood  and  fall  short  of  the  merely 
human  in  another  —  that  she,  also,  was  capable  of 
moments  of  sublimation  and  of  hours  of  recusancy. 
There  were  the  ashes  of  a  poet  in  her  soul  as  in  his, 
and  to  contain  the  ashes  of  a  poet  one  must  have  been 
first  the  crucible  for  purifying  flames. 

But  it  was  six  months  ago  that  he  had  condemned 
her,  and  since  then  the  subtle  modifications  had  worked 
in  his  habit  of  thought.  As  the  soreness  passed  from 
his  heart,  he  had  nursed  the  scar  much  as  a  crusader 
might  have  cherished  a  wound  out  of  the  Holy  Wars. 
Prom  the  actual  conditions  of  life  in  which  he  had 


YOUTH  SHOWS  A  LITTLE  SEASONED 

loved  her,  he  now  beheld  her  caught  up  into  the  zone 
of  ideal  and  impossible  beauty.  Through  the  outer 
covering  of  her  flesh  he  could  see  her  soul  shine,  as  the 
stars  shone  through  the  web  of  purple  twilight  on  the 
marshes.  From  his  earlier  craving  for  possession, 
his  love  had  grown,  through  frustration  and  disap 
pointment,  into  a  simpler  passion  for  service. 

"Well,  one  has  to  find  out  things,"  he  said  to  him 
self  on  this  November  morning,  while  he  watched 
the  old  negro  at  his  work.  Some  red  leaves  whirled 
into  his  face,  and  the  wrind,  lifting  the  dark  hair  from  his 
forehead,  showed  three  heavy  furrows  between  his 
knitted  brows.  He  appeared  a  little  older,  a  little 
braver,  a  little  wiser,  yet  there  was  about  him  still  the 
look  of  superb  physical  vitality  which  had  been  the 
result  of  a  youth  spent  in  the  open  fields. 

"Howdy,  Uncle  Boaz,"  he  said  to  the  old  negro, 
who  approached  with  his  wheelbarrow.  "Your  folks 
have  all  gone  away  for  good,  haven't  they?" 

"Hit  looks  dat  ar  way,  marster,  hit  sutney  do  look 
dat  ar  way." 

"Well,  you  keep  good  grass  here  all  the  same." 

"Dar  ain'  but  one  way  ter  do  hit,  suh,  en  dat's 
ter  dung  hit,"  replied  Uncle  Boaz,  and  he  remarked 
a  minute  afterwards,  as  he  put  down  the  lowered 
handles  of  the  wheelbarrow,  and  stood  prodding  the 
ashes  in  his  pipe,  "I'se  gwinter  vote  fur  you,  Marse 
Abel,  I  sholy  is " 

"Thank  you,  Uncle  Boaz!" 

"En  I'se  got  a  sack  er  co'n  I'd  be  moughty  bleeged 
ter  git  ground  up  fur  hominy  meal " 

With  a  laugh  Abel  passed  on  through  the  side-garden, 
and  entered  the  leafless  shrubbery  that  bordered  the 


*80  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

Haunt's  Walk.  The  old  negro  had  disturbed  his 
dream,  which  had  been  of  Molly  in  her  red  stockings, 
with  the  red  ribbon  binding  her  curls.  Then  he  thought 
of  Spot,  the  aged  hound  —  "That  dog  must  have 
lived  to  be  seventeen  years  old,"  he  said  aloud  in 
the  effort  to  smother  the  sharp  pang  at  his  heart, 
"I  remember  how  fond  old  Reuben  was  of  him  even 
as  a  puppy.  He  would  never  let  him  run  hares  with 
anybody  except  himself."  It  was  seventeen  years 
ago  that  Spot  was  a  puppy  and  he  a  boy  —  and  now 
the  one  was  dust  with  old  Reuben,  and  the  other  had 
settled  down  so  effectually  that  he  was  going  to  marry 
Judy  in  a  fortnight.  At  least  Judy  was  a  good  woman 
—  nobody  had  ever  said  a  word  against  her  —  and  she 
would  make  him  a  good  wife.  That,  after  all,  was 
what  a  farmer  must  think  of  —  a  good,  saving  wife, 
without  any  foolishness  about  her,  who  would  be  thrifty 
and  lend  a  hand  at  his  work  when  he  needed  it.  All 
the  rest  was  nonsense  when  once  a  man  married. 
Dreams  were  all  very  well  in  their  way,  but  realities 
and  not  dreams,  after  all,  were  things  he  must  live 
with.  Looking  ahead  he  saw  his  future  stretching 
smooth  and  firm,  like  the  flat  white  turnpike  that 
dragged  its  solid  length  into  the  distance.  On  that 
road  there  was  no  place  for  the  absurdity  of  red 
stockings!  And  so,  in  the  absence  of  all  elation, 
only  the  grim  sense  of  duty  in  the  doing  soothed  him 
as  he  made  his  way  to  Solomon  Hatch's  cottage. 

On  the  back  porch  he  found  Judy  deftly  taking 
butter  out  of  the  churn,  and  he  watched  her  while 
she  worked  the  soft  lumps  with  a  wooden  paddle  in 
a  large  yellow  bowl.  Though  he  would  have  been 
the  last  to  suspect  it  —  for  passion  like  temptation 


YOUTH  SHOWS  A  LITTLE  SEASONED      281 

appeared  to  him  to  beset  the  beautiful  alone  —  Judy, 
in  her  homely  way,  was  also  a  crucible,  and  the  little 
earthern  pot  of  her  body  was  near  to  bursting  at  the 
moment  from  the  violence  of  the  flames  within.  She 
had  just  seen  a  black  coated  figure  in  a  red  gig  spin 
by  on  the  road,  and  for  one  blissful  minute,  she  had 
permitted  herself  a  flight  of  fancy,  in  which  she 
was  the  bride,  not  of  Abel  Revercomb,  but  of 
Orlando  Mullen.  To  sit  in  that  red  wheeled  gig, 
touching  the  sleeve  of  his  black  coat!  To  stitch  the 
frayed  seams  in  his  silk  waistcoat!  To  iron  his 
surplices  as  only  she  could  iron  when  the  divine  fury 
seized  her!  To  visit  his  poor  and  his  afflicted!  To 
lift  her  swooning  gaze  every  Sunday,  with  a  sense  of 
possession,  to  that  pulpit!  For  a  minute  only  the 
rapture  lasted,  and  all  the  time,  she  went  on  placidly 
making  butter  in  the  large  yellow  bowl.  She  was  in 
the  mood  to  commit  sublime  follies  and  magnificent 
fndiscretions.  For  the  sake  of  a  drive  in  that  red 
wheeled  gig  she  would  have  foresworn  Abel  at  the  altar. 
For  the  ecstasy  of  ironing  those  surplices  she  would 
have  remained  a  spinster  forever. 

"That's  nice  butter,  Judy,"  remarked  her  lover, 
and  believed  that  he  had  paid  her  a  tribute  peculiarly 
suited  to  the  complexion  of  her  soul. 

His  gaze  followed  the  drab  sweep  of  her  hair,  which 
was  combed  straight  back  from  her  forehead.  Her 
eyes  were  looking  heavenward  while  she  worked, 
yet  they  caught  no  beam,  no  colour  from  her 
celestial  visions.  Small  hectic  splotches  burned  in 
the  centre  of  her  cheeks,  and  her  thin  lips  were  pressed 
tightly  together  as  though  she  bit  back  a  cry.  Some 
times  she  would  remain  dumb  for  an  hour  in  his  pres- 


282  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

ence,  while  her  thoughts  soared  like  birds  in  the 
blue  region  of  dreams.  She  indulged  her  imagination 
in  grotesque  but  intoxicating  reveries,  in  which  she 
passed  nobly  and  with  honour  through  a  series  of 
thrillingly  romantic  adventures;  and,  in  fact,  only  ten 
minutes  before  Abel's  arrival,  she  had  beheld  herself 
and  the  young  clergyman  undergoing  a  rapturous, 
if  slightly  unreal,  martyrdom,  as  missionaries  to  the 
Chinese. 

Her  dreams  dropped  suddenly,  with  broken  wings, 
in  their  flight,  for  her  stepmother,  a  small  sickly  woman, 
with  a  twisted  smile,  looked  out  through  the  dining- 
room  window,  and  remarked  facetiously : 

"You  all  don't  look  much  like  a  co'tin  couple  to 
my  eyes. " 

"I've  been  admiring  her  butter,"  replied  Abel, 
who  was  always  unduly  regardful  of  his  English  in 
the  presence  of  Mrs.  Hatch. 

"She's  a  good  hand  at  butter  when  she  chooses  to 
be,  but  she  has  her  ups  and  downs  like  the  rest  of  us. " 

"All  of  us  have  them,  I  suppose,"  he  rejoined,  and 
Mrs.  Hatch  drew  in  her  head. 

"I  never  imagined  that  you  got  put  out,  Judy," 
he  said,  forgetting  the  tears  that  had  led  him  to  his 
sacrifice;  "you  always  seem  so  quiet  and  sober." 

She  glanced  up,  for  there  was  a  sound  of  wheels  on 
the  road,  and  Mr.  Mullen  drove  by  again,  sitting  very 
erect,  and  uncovering,  with  a  graceful  bend,  to  some 
one  who  was  visible  at  the  front.  Her  face  flushed 
suddenly  to  the  colour  of  brickdust,  and  she  felt  that 
the  confusion  in  her  soul  must  fill  the  universe  with 
noise.  Quiet  and  sober,  indeed,  if  he  could  only  have 
heard  it! 


YOUTH  SHOWS  A  LITTLE  SEASONED        283 

But  Abel  was  busy  with  his  own  problems,  while 
his  gaze  followed  Mr.  Mullen's  vanishing  back,  which 
had,  even  from  a  distance,  a  look  of  slight  yet  earnest 
endeavour.  He  still  liked  the  young  rector  for  his 
sincerity  and  his  uprightness,  but  he  had  found,  on 
the  wrhole,  that  he  could  approach  his  God  more  com 
fortably  when  the  straight  and  narrow  shadow  of  the 
clergyman  did  not  come  between. 

"Aren't  you  going  to  pat  it  any  more?"  he  asked 
presently,  returning  to  his  consideration  of  the  butter. 

Picking  up  a  square  linen  cloth,  Judy  dipped  it  into 
a  basin  of  brine,  and,  after  wringing  it  out,  carefully 
folded  it  over  the  yellow  bowl. 

"All  the  buttermilk  is  out  of  it,"  she  answered,  and 
thought  of  the  unfinished  pair  of  purple  slippers  laid 
away  in  tissue  paper  upstairs  in  her  bureau  drawer. 
As  a  married  woman  could  she,  with  virtue,  continue 
to  embroider  slippers  in  pansies  for  her  rector?  These 
had  been  laid  aside  on  the  day  of  her  engagement  to 
Abel,  but  she  yearned  now  to  riot  in  purple  shades  with 
her  needle.  While  she  listened  with  a  detached  mind 
to  Abel's  practical  plans  for  the  future,  her  only 
interest  in  the  details  lay  in  the  fact  that  they  would, 
in  a  measure,  insure  the  possibility  of  a  yearly  offering 
of  slippers.  And  wThile  they  looked  into  each  other's 
eyes,  neither  suspected  for  a  moment  the  existence  of 
a  secret  chamber  in  the  other's  soul.  All  appeared 
plain  and  simple  on  the  surface,  and  Judy,  as  well 
as  Abel,  was  honestly  of  the  opinion  that  she  under 
stood  perfectly  the  situation  and  that  the  passionate 
refusal  of  her  heart  was  the  only  element  that 
threatened  the  conventional  security  of  appearances. 

She  was  in  the  morbid  condition  of  mind  when  the 


284  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

capacity  for  feeling  seems  concentrated  on  a  single 
centre  of  pain.  Her  soul  revolved  in  a  circle,  and 
outside  of  its  narrow  orbit  there  was  only  the  arid 
flatness  which  surrounds  any  moment  of  vivid  expe 
rience.  The  velvet  slippers,  which  might  have  been 
worn  by  the  young  clergyman,  possessed  a  vital  and 
romantic  interest  in  her  thoughts,  but  the  mill  and  the 
machinery  of  which  Abel  was  speaking  showed  to  her 
merely  as  sordid  and  mechanical  details  of  existence. 

Looking  at  her  suddenly,  he  realized  that  she  had 
heard  nothing  of  what  he  was  saying.  If  he  had 
looked  deeper  still  he  would  have  seen  the  tragedy 
of  her  lonely  little  soul  spinning  the  web  of  its  perish 
ing  illusion.  Of  all  the  martyrdoms  allotted  to  love's 
victims,  she  was  enduring  the  bitterest,  which  is  the 
martyrdom  of  frustration.  Yet  because  she  appeared 
dull  and  undesirable  on  the  surface,  he  had  declined, 
with  the  rest  of  Old  Church,  to  regard  her  emotions 
any  less  casually  than  he  regarded  her  complexion. 

"Well,  I  ought  to  be  a  proud  man  to  have  you, 
Judy,"  he  remarked,  and  rose  to  his  feet. 

"I  hope  neither  of  us  will  ever  regret  it,"  she  re 
turned. 

"Not  if  I  can  help  it,"  he  said,  and,  putting  his  arm 
around  her,  he  drew  her  to  him  and  kissed  her  lips. 
It  was  the  second  time  he  had  kissed  her,  and  on  the 
first  occasion  she  had  burst  into  hysterical  weeping. 
He  did  not  know  that  it  was  the  only  caress  she  had 
ever  received,  and  that  she  had  wept  because  it  had 
fallen  so  far  short  of  what  her  imagination  had  deluded 
her  into  expecting.  Now,  though  she  had  herself 
well  in  hand  and  gave  no  visible  sign  of  her  disappoint 
ment,  there  was  a  fierce,  though  unspoken,  protest 


YOUTH  SHOWS  A  LITTLE  SEASONED        285 

in  her  heart.  "To  think  that  after  all  the  nights 
I've  lain  awake  an'  wondered  what  'twas  like,  it  should 
turn  out  to  be  so  terrible  flat,"  she  said  bitterly  to 
herself. 

"It's  just  a  fortnight  off  now,  Judy,"  he  remarked 
gently,  if  not  tenderly. 

"I  hope  your  mother  will  get  on  with  me,  Abel." 

"She  sets  great  store  by  you  now.  You're  pious, 
and  she  likes  that  even  though  you  do  go  to  the  Epis 
copal  church.  I  heard  her  say  yesterday  that  it  was 
a  rare  thing  to  see  a  girl  find  as  much  comfort  in  her 
religion  as  you  do." 

"You'll  never  want  to  come  between  me  and  my 
church  work,  will  you,  Abel?  I  do  most  of  the  For 
eign  Mission  work,  you  know,  an'  I  teach  in  Sunday 
school  and  I  visit  the  sick  every  Friday." 

"Come  between?  Why,  it  makes  me  proud  of  you! 
When  I  asked  Mr.  Mullen  about  marrying  us,  he  said: 
'She's  been  as  good  as  a  right  hand  to  me  ever  since 
I  came  here,  Revercomb." 

" Tell  me  over  again.    What  were  his  words  exactly?" 

"  'She's  been  as  good  as  a  right  hand  to  me,  Rever 
comb,'  that  was  what  he  said,  and  he  added,  'She's 
the  salt  of  the  earth,  that's  the  only  way  to  describe 
her.'  And  now,  goodbye,  Judy,  I  must  be  going  back 
to  work." 

Without  glancing  round,  he  went  at  his  rapid 
stride  down  the  narrow  walk  to  the  whitewashed  gate, 
which  hung  loose  on  broken  hinges.  In  the  road  he 
came  face  to  face  with  Jonathan  Gay,  who  was  riding 
leisurely  in  the  direction  of  Jordan's  Journey. 

"How  are  you,  Revercomb?     All  well?" 

"Yes,  all  w:ell,  thank  you." 


286  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

Turning  in  his  tracks,  he  gazed  thoughtfully  after 
the  rider  for  a  moment. 

"I  wonder  why  he  came  out  of  his  way  instead  of 
keeping  to  the  turnpike?'*  he  thought,  and  a  minute 
later,  "that's  the  third  time  he's  come  back  since  the 
family  left  Jordan's  Journey. " 


CHAPTER  II 

THE    DESIRE    OF    THE    MOTH 

AT  THE  gate  before  the  Revercombs'  house  Blossom 
was  standing  in  a  dress  of  vivid  blue. 

"Are  you  going  to  a  party?"  Abel  inquired  as  he 
reached  her,  and  she  answered  impatiently: 

"I  promised  to  wear  this  dress  over  to  Judy's,  so 
that  she  could  see  how  it  is  trimmed." 

"Does  she  want  a  blue  one?"  he  asked.  It  seemed 
to  him  little  short  of  ludicrous  that  Judy  should  buy 
a  new  dress  because  she  was  going  to  be  married  to 
him;  but  in  the  presence  of  a  custom  so  firmly  en 
trenched  behind  the  traditions  of  respectability,  he 
knew  that  protest  would  be  useless.  Judy  would  deck 
out  her  unromantic  person  in  wedding  finery  because 
finery  was  customary  on  such  occasions. 

"Of  course  we  couldn't  dress  just  alike,  Abel," 
replied  Blossom.  His  question  had  seemed  foolish 
to  her  and  her  usual  soft  solemnity  was  ruffled  by  a 
passing  irritation.  "Judy's  frock  will  be  green,  but 
she  wants  bretelles  like  these  on  it." 

"Bretelles?"  he  repeated  as  incredulously  as  if  he 
had  possessed  any  but  the  vaguest  idea  of  the  article 
the  word  described.  "Why  didn't  she  wait  until  she 
was  married,  and  then  I'd  have  bought  them  for  her," 
he  added. 

"Of  course  she  wants  her  wedding  clothes  —  all 
girls  do,"  said  Blossom,  invoking  tradition.  "Are 

287 


283  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

you  coming  in  now.  We're  having  dinner  a  little 
earlier." 

She  turned  and  moved  slowly  up  the  walk,  while  he 
followed,  caressing  the  head  of  Moses,  his  spotted 
hound.  From  the  kitchen  he  could  hear  Sarah 
Revercomb  scolding  the  small  negro,  Mary  Jo, 
whom  she  was  training  to  wait  on  the  table.  On  one 
side  of  the  hearth  grandmother  sat  very  alert,  waiting 
for  her  bowl  of  soup,  into  which  Mary  Jo  was  crum 
bling  soft  bits  of  bread,  while  across  from  her  grand 
father  chuckled  to  himself  over  a  recollection  which 
he  did  not  divulge. 

At  Abel's  entrance,  the  old  man  stopped  chuckling 
and  inquired  in  an  interested  tone, 

"Did  you  buy  that  ar  steer,  Abel?" 

"Not  yet,  I'm  to  think  it  over  and  let  Jim  Bumpass 
know." 

"Thar  never  was  sech  a  man  for  steers,"  remarked 
grandmother, contemptuously.  "Here  he's  still  axin' 
about  steers  when  he  can't  hist  himself  out  of  his  cheer. 
If  I  were  you,  Abel,  I'd  tell  him  he'd  better  be  steddyin' 
about  everlastin'  damnation  instead  of  steers.  Steert 
ain't  goin'  to  haul  him  out  of  hell  fire  if  he  once  gits 
down  into  it." 

"Well,  you  can  tell  her,  Abel,"  retorted  grandfather, 
"that  it's  time  enough  to  holler  *  hell-fire!'  when 
you  begin  to  burn." 

Mary  Jo  prevented  a  rejoinder  by  appearing  with 
a  napkin,  which  she  tied  under  his  wife's  chin,  and  a 
little  later  the  old  woman  could  be  heard  drinking 
greedily  her  bowl  of  soup.  She  lived  for  food,  yet, 
like  most  passions  which  have  become  exaggerated 
by  concentration  out  of  all  proportion  to  the  fact 


THE  DESIRE  OF  THE  MOTH  289 

upon  which  they  depend,  the  moment  of  fulfilment 
seemed  always  brief  and  unsatisfactory  after  the 
intensity  of  anticipation.  To-day  the  trouble  was 
that  there  were  no  carrots  in  the  soup,  and  this  omis 
sion  reduced  her  to  tears  because  it  had  blighted  the 
hopes  of  her  entire  morning. 

"An'  I'd  been  hankerin'  arter  them  carrots  ever 
since  breakfast,"  she  whimpered. 

"Don't  cry,  ma.  I'll  mash  you  up  some  nice  ones 
for  supper.  That'll  be  something  to  look  forward 
to,"  said  Sarah,  who  might  have  won  an  immortal 
crown  had  such  trophies  been  awarded  to  the  patience 
of  daughters-in-law.  "So  you  didn't  buy  that  steer, 
Abel?" 

"No,  I  didn't  buy  it." 

"Have  you  seen  Judy  to-day?" 

"I  stopped  there  on  my  way  home.  She  was  mak 
ing  butter,  and  we  talked  about  buying  an  extra  cow 
or  two  and  letting  Blossom  and  her  send  some  to 
market." 

"Well,  it  beats  me!"  observed  Sarah,  but  whether 
her  discomfiture  was  due  to  Judy's  butter  or  to 
Abel's  love  making,  she  did  not  explain.  On  the  whole 
the  staidness  of  the  courtship  was  pleasing  to  her. 
Her  sense  of  decorum  was  flattered  by  it,  for  she  had 
as  little  tolerance  of  the  softer  virtues  as  of  the  softer 
vices.  It  had  been  years  since  she  had  felt  so  indul 
gent  toward  her  second  son;  yet  in  spite  of  the  grati 
fication  his  dejection  afforded  her,  she  was,  as 
she  had  just  confessed,  utterly  and  entirely  "beat." 
His  period  of  common  sense  —  of  perfect  and  com 
plete  sobriety  —  had  lasted  for  half  a  year,  but  she 
was  too  shrewd  a  woman  to  be  deceived  by  the  mere 


290  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

external  calmness  of  appearances.  She  had  had,  more 
over,  a  long  experience  with  males  of  the  Revercomb 
stock,  and  she  knew  that  it  was  when  their  blood  flowed 
quietest  that  there  was  the  greatest  danger  of  an 
ultimate  "rousing."  All  her  life  she  had  lived  in 
dread  of  this  menace  to  respectability  —  to  that  strict 
observance  of  the  letter  of  the  social  law  for  which 
the  Hawtreys  had  stood  for  generations.  On  several 
occasions  she  had  seen  a  Revercomb  really  "roused," 
and  when  this  transformation  was  once  achieved,  not 
all  the  gravity  of  all  the  Hawtreys  could  withstand 
the  force  of  it.  And  this  terrible  potential  energy 
in  her  husband's  stock  would  assert  itself,  she  knew, 
after  a  period  of  tranquillity.  She  hadn't  been 
married  to  a  Revercomb  for  nothing,  she  had  once 
remarked. 

If  anything  could  have  put  her  into  a  cheerful  hu 
mour,  it  would  have  been  the  depressed  and  solemn 
manner  with  which  Abel  went  about  the  preparations 
for  his  marriage.  The  inflexible  logic  of  Calvinism  had 
passed  into  her  fibre,  until  it  had  become  almost  an 
instinct  with  her  to  tread  softly  in  the  way  of  pleasure 
lest  God  should  hear.  Generations  of  joyless  ancestors 
had  imbued  her  with  an  ineradicable  suspicion  of 
human  happiness  —  as  something  which  must  be  paid 
for,  either  literally  in  its  pound  of  flesh,  or  in  a  corre 
sponding  measure  of  the  materials  of  salvation. 

"I  declar'  things  are  goin'  on  so  smooth  that  some 
thing  must  be  gettin*  ready  to  happen,"  she  said 
anxiously  to  herself  at  least  twenty  times  a  day  — 
for  she  had  observed  life,  and  in  her  opinion,  the  ob 
servation  had  verified  the  rigid  principles  of  her 
religion.  Do  what  you  would  the  doctrines  of  original 


THE  DESIRE  OF  THE  MOTH  291 

sin  and  predestination  kept  cropping  up  under  the 
surface  of  existence.  And  so  —  "It  looks  all  right 
on  top,  but  you  never  can  tell,"  was  the  habitual 
attitude  of  her  mind. 

When  dinner  was  over,  Abel  went  out  to  the  mill, 
with  Moses,  the  hound,  trotting  at  his  heels.  The 
high  wind  was  still  blowing,  and  while  he  stood  by  the 
mill-race,  the  boughs  of  the  sycamore  rocked  back 
and  forth  over  his  head  with  a  creaking  noise.  At 
each  swing  of  the  branches  a  crowd  of  broad  yellow 
leaves  was  torn  from  the  stems  and  chased  over  the 
moving  wheel  to  the  open  meadow  beyond. 

With  the  key  of  the  mill  in  his  hand,  Abel  stopped 
to  gaze  over  the  green  knoll  where  he  had  once  planned 
to  build  his  house.  Beyond  it  he  saw  the  strip  of 
pines,  and  he  knew  that  the  tallest  of  the  trees  had 
fallen  uselessly  beneath  his  axe.  The  great  trunk 
still  lay  there,  fast  rotting  to  dust  on  the  carpet  of 
pine  cones.  He  had  never  sold  it  for  timber.  He 
would  never  use  it  for  the  rafters  of  his  home. 

As  he  looked  back  now  all  that  past  life  of  his  ap 
peared  to  him  fair  and  desirable.  He  remembered  the 
early  morning  risings  in  his  boyhood,  and  it  seemed 
to  him  that  he  had  enjoyed  every  one  of  them  to  its 
fullest  —  that  it  was  only  the  present  that  showed 
stale  and  unprofitable  in  his  eyes.  A  rosy  haze 
obscured  all  that  was  harsh  and  unlovely  in  the  past, 
and  he  thought  of  himself  as  always  eager  and  en 
thusiastic  then,  as  always  finding  happiness  in  the 
incidents  that  befell  him.  The  year  when  he  had  gone 
away,  and  worked  in  a  factory  in  order  to  educate 
himself,  was  revealed  as  a  period  of  delightful  promise, 
of  wonderful  opportunity.  In  remembering  his  love 


292  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

for  Molly,  he  forgot  the  quarrels,  the  jealousies,  the 
heartburnings,  and  recalled  only  the  exquisite  instant 
of  their  first  lover's  kiss.  Then,  he  told  himself  that 
even  while  he  had  enjoyed  his  life,  it  had  cheated  him, 
and  he  would  not  live  it  over  again  if  he  could. 

Turning  presently  in  the  other  direction,  he  discerned 
a  patch  of  vivid  blue  in  the  pasture,  and  knew  that  it 
was  Blossom  crossing  the  fields  to  Solomon  Hatch's. 
"  She's  gone  a  good  piece  out  of  her  road,"  he  thought, 
and  then,  "I  wonder  why  she  doesn't  marry?  She 
might  have  anybody  about  here  if  she  wasn't  so 
particular."  The  vivid  blue  spot  in  the  midst  of  the 
russet  and  brown  landscape  held  his  gaze  for  a  moment; 
then  calling  Moses  to  his  side,  he  unlocked  the  door 
of  the  mill  and  began  counting  the  sacks  of  grist. 

Outside,  in  the  high  wind,  which  made  walking 
difficult,  Blossom  moved  in  the  direction  of  the  willow 
copse.  Gay  had  promised  to  meet  her,  but  she  knew, 
from  the  experience  of  the  last  few  months,  that  he 
would  neither  hasten  his  luncheon  nor  smoke  a  cigar 
the  less  in  order  to  do  so.  As  she  pressed  on  the  wind 
sang  in  her  ears.  She  heard  it  like  the  sound  of  rush 
ing  wings  in  the  broomsedge,  and  when  it  died  down, 
she  waited  for  it  to  rise  again  with  a  silken  murmur  in 
the  red-topped  orchard  grass.  She  could  tell  from  the 
sound  whether  the  gust  was  still  in  the  field  of  broom- 
sedge  or  had  swept  on  to  the  pasture. 

In  spite  of  her  blue  dress,  in  spite  of  the  flush  in  her 
cheeks  and  the  luminous  softness  in  her  eyes,  the  joy 
in  her  bosom  fluttered  on  crippled  wings.  Gay  was 
kind,  he  was  gentle,  he  was  even  solicitous  on  the  rare 
occasions  when  she  saw  him;  but  somehow  —  in  some 
way,  it  was  different  from  the  ideal  marriage  of  which 


THE  DESIRE  OF  THE  MOTH  293 

she  had  dreamed.  If  he  was  kind,  he  was  also  casual. 
She  had  hoped  once  that  love  would  fill  her  life,  and 
now,  to  her  despair,  it  looked  as  if  it  might  be  poured 
into  a  tea-cup.  She  had  imagined  that  it  would  move 
mountains,  and  the  most  ordinary  detail  of  living 
was  sufficient  to  thrust  it  out  of  sight. 

When  she  reached  the  brook,  she  saw  Gay  coming 
slowly  along  the  Haunt's  Walk,  to  the  spring.  As 
he  walked,  he  blew  little  clouds  of  smoke  into  the  air, 
and  she  thought,  as  he  approached  ner,  iiiat  the  smell 
of  his  cigar  was  unlike  the  cigar  of  any  other  man  she 
knew  —  that  it  possessed,  in  itself,  a  quality  that  was 
exciting  and  romantic.  This  trait  in  his  personality  — 
a  disturbing  suggestion  of  the  atmosphere  of  a  richer 
world  —  had  fascinated  her  from  the  beginning,  and 
after  eighteen  months  of  repeated  disappointments, 
it  still  held  her,  though  she  struggled  now  in  its  power 
like  a  hare  in  a  trap. 

"So  you're  here!"  he  exclaimed  as  he  reached  her. 
Then,  after  a  swift  glance  over  the  fields,  he  drew  her 
into  the  shelter  of  the  trees,  and  holding  his  cigar  in 
his  left  hand,  kissed  her  lips. 

Closing  her  eyes,  she  leaned  against  him,  while  the 
scent  of  the  tobacco  intoxicated  her  with  its  train  of 
happier  associations. 

"You're  looking  all  right,  though  your  letters  have 
been  rather  jumpy.  My  dear  girl,  when  you  pounce 
on  me  like  that  you  frighten  me  out  of  my  wits.  You 
really  mustn't,  you  know." 

"O  Jonathan!"  she  gasped,  and  clung  to  him. 

"Why,  I  had  to  manufacture  some  excuse  on  the 
instant  for  coming  down.  I  couldn't  tell  what  fool 
ishness  you'd  be  capable  of  if  I  didn't." 


394  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

His  tone  was  half  caressing,  yet  beneath  it  there  was 
a  serious  annoyance,  which  killed  the  suffering  joy 
in  her  heart.  She  was  slowly  learning  that  it  is  not  safe 
to  remind  the  man  of  pleasure  of  his  obligations,  since 
he  is  attracted  chiefly  by  his  opportunities. 

"The  time  was  when  you  wanted  to  come  just  as 
much  as  I,"  she  said. 

"Don't  I  still?  Haven't  I  proved  it  by  telling  a 
tremendous  lie  and  rushing  down  here  on  the  first 
train?  Come,  now,  kiss  me  like  a  good  girl  and  look 
cheerful.  You've  got  to  make  up,  you  know,  for  all 
the  trouble  you've  put  me  to." 

She  kissed  him  obediently,  yielding  to  his  casual 
embraces  with  a  docility  that  would  have  charmed  him 
had  his  passion  been  in  its  beginning  instead  of  its 
decline. 

"You're  glad  now  you  came,  aren't  you?"  she  asked 
presently,  pleading  to  be  reassured. 

"Oh,  yes,  of  course,  I  like  it,  but  you  mustn't  write 
to  me  that  way  again." 

Putting  his  arm  closer  about  her,  he  pressed  her  to 
his  side,  and  they  sat  in  silence  while  the  wind  whistled 
in  the  tree-tops  above  them.  From  their  shelter  they 
could  see  the  empty  chimneys  of  Jordan's  Journey, 
and  a  blurred  and  attenuated  figure  on  the  lawn,  which 
was  that  of  the  old  negro,  who  passed  back  and  forth 
spreading  manure.  Some  swallows  with  slate  grey 
wings  were  flying  over  the  roof,  and  they  appeared 
from  a  distance  to  whirl  as  helplessly  as  the  dead 
leaves. 

"You  do  love  me  as  much  as  ever,  don't  you, 
Jonathan?"  she  asked  suddenly. 

He  frowned,  staring  at  the  moving  figure  of  the  old 


THE  DESIRE  OF  THE  MOTH  295 

negro.  Again  she  had  blundered,  for  he  was  disin 
clined  by  temperament  to  do  or  say  the  thing  that 
was  expected  of  him. 

"Why,  of  course  I  do,"  he  answered  after  a  pause. 

She  sighed  and  nestled  against  him,  while  his  hand 
which  had  been  on  her  shoulder,  slipped  to  her  waist. 
Her  heart  had  turned  to  lead  in  her  breast,  and,  like 
Judy,  she  could  have  wept  because  the  reality  of  love 
was  different  from  her  virgin  dreams. 


CHAPTER  III 

ABEL  HEARS  GOSSIP  AND  SEES  A  VISION 

Two  nights  before  the  wedding  a  corn  shucking  was 
held  in  the  barn  at  Bottom's  Ordinary  —  a  usually 
successful  form  of  entertainment,  by  which  the 
strenuous  labours  of  a  score  of  able-bodied  men  were 
secured  at  the  cost  of  a  keg  of  cider  and  a  kettle  of 
squirrel  stew.  In  the  centre  of  the  barn,  which  was 
dimly  lighted  by  a  row  of  smoky,  strong-smelling 
kerosene-oil  lanterns,  suspended  on  pegs  from  the  wall, 
there  was  a  huge  wooden  bin,  into  which  the  golden 
ears  were  tossed,  as  they  were  stripped  of  the  husks, 
by  a  circle  of  guests,  ranging  in  years  from  old 
Adam  at  the  head  to  the  youngest  son  of  Tim  Mallory, 
an  inquisitive  urchin  of  nine,  who  made  himself  useful 
by  passing  the  diminishing  pitcher  of  cider.  It  was  a 
frosty  night,  and  the  faces  of  the  huskers  showed  very 
red  above  the  knitted  woollen  comforters  which 
wrapped  their  throats.  Before  each  man  there  was  a 
small  pile  of  corn,  still  in  the  blade,  and  this  was  replen 
ished  when  it  began  to  dwindle  by  a  band  of  workers 
in  the  moonlight  beyond  the  open  windows.  In  his  ef 
fort  to  keep  warm  somebody  had  started  a  hymn,  which 
was  vigorously  accompanied  by  a  beating  of  numbed 
feet  on  the  scattered  husks  on  the  floor.  Above 
the  volume  of  sound  old  Adam's  quavering  falsetto 
could  be  heard  piping  on  like  a  cracked  and  discordant 
flute. 

296 


ABEL  HEARS  GOSSIP  AND  SEES  A  VISION     297 

"O-ver  thar,  O-ver  thar, 
Th-ar's  a  la-nd  of  pure  de-light. 

O-ver  th-ar, 

We  will  la-y  our  bur-den  do-wn. 
An'  re-ceive  our  gol-den  cro-wn. 
In     that     la-nd     of     pure     de-light 
O-ver  th-ar." 

"That's  a  cold  hymn,  an'  unsuitable  to  the  weather, " 
remarked  Tim  Mallory  at  the  end  of  the  verse.  "If 
you  ask  me,  I'd  say  thar  was  mo'  immediate  comfort 
in  singin'  about  the  redness  of  hell-fire,  an'  how  mortal 
close  we're  comin'  to  it. " 

"We  don't  want  no  impiousness  at  this  here  shuckin', 
Tim,"  observed  William  Ming,  who  occupied  the 
position  of  host  in  Betsey's  absence  about  the  more 
important  matter  of  supper.  "You  fill  up  with  cider 
an'  go  at  that  thar  pile  befo'  you." 

"Then  pass  it  on,"  replied  Mallory,  reaching  for 
the  jug  of  cider,  which  travelled  in  a  regular  orbit 
from  old  Adam's  right  hand  round  the  circle  to  the 
neighbour  on  his  left,  who  chanced  to  be  Solomon 
Hatch. 

"Speakin'  of  impiousness,"  remarked  that  sour- 
faced  little  man,  "have  you  all  heard  the  tales  about 
Reuben  Merryweather's  gal  sence  she's  had  her  wind 
fall?  Why,  to  see  the  way  she  trails  her  skirts,  you'd 
think  she  was  the  real  child  of  her  father."  Then 
rushing  hurriedly  to  generalization  at  Abel's  entrance, 
he  added  in  a  louder  tone  —  "Ah,  it's  a  sad  pass  for 
things  to  come  to,  an'  the  beginnin'  of  the  end  of 
public  morality,  when  a  gal  that's  born  of  a  mischance 
can  come  to  act  as  if  a  man  was  responsible  for  her. 
It  ain't  nothin'  mo'  nor  less  than  flyin'  in  the  face  of 


298  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

the  law,  which  reads  different,  an'  if  it  keeps  up,  the 
women  folks  will  be  sett  in'  up  the  same  rights  as  men 
to  all  the  instincts  of  natur." 

Old  Adam  —  the  pride  and  wonder  of  the  neigh 
bourhood  because  he  could  still  walk  his  half  mile 
with  the  help  of  his  son  and  still  drink  his  share  of 
cider  with  the  help  of  nobody  —  bent  over  the  heap 
of  corn  before  him,  and  selecting  an  ear,  divested  it 
of  the  husks  with  a  twirling,  sleight-of-hand  move 
ment. 

"They're  losing  virtue  fast  enough,"  he  observed, 
throwing  the  naked  ear  into  the  bin  and  reaching  for 
another.  "Why,  when  I  was  young  thar  warn't 
nothin'  in  the  way  of  meanness  that  a  good  woman 
wouldn't  put  up  with.  They'd  shut  thar  eyes  to 
Hagars,  white  or  black,  rather  than  lose  the  respect 
of  men  by  seemin'  to  be  aware  of  any  immodesty." 

"Ah,  the  times  have  changed  now!"  sighed  Solomon 
Hatch,  "but  thar's  one  thing  sho'  to  my  mind,  an' 
that  is,  that  if  a  woman  thinks  she's  goin'  to  attract 
men  by  pryin'  an'  peekin'  into  immorality  an'  settin' 
it  straight  ag'in,  she's  gone  clean  out  of  her  head. 
Thar's  got  to  be  indecency  in  the  world  because  thar 
al'ays  has  been.  But  a  man  sets  a  heap  mo'  sto* 
by  his  wife  if  she  ain't  too  inquirin'  upon  the  subject." 

"True,  true,  Solomon,"  said  old  Adam,  "I  for 
one  was  al'ays  set  against  teachin'  women  to  read  for 
fear  they'd  come  to  know  things.  Thar's  a  deal  of 
evil  that  gits  into  print,  an'  if  you  ain't  acquainted 
with  yo*  letters  thar's  less  temptation  to  nose  arter 
it.  Reuben  Merryweather  would  have  his  daughter 
Janet  taught,  though  I  urged  strongly  against  it  — 
holdin'  that  she  could  learn  about  sins  an'  immoralities 


ABEL  HEARS  GOSSIP  AND  SEES  A  VISION  299 

even  in  Holy  Writ.  Who  knows  if  she'd  ever  have 
gone  wrong  if  she  hadn't  learned  to  read  printed 
words?" 

"Well,  I'm  glad  print  is  too  difficult  for  me,"  ob 
served  young  Adam.  "The  pains  I  take  to  spell  out 
the  words  would  stand  greatly  in  the  way  of  my  en- 
j'yin'  any  immorality  if  I  was  to  stumble  across  it. 
WThat  part  of  Scripture,  pa,  is  it  that  deals  with  sech 
doin's?" 

"They  crop  up  powerful  thick  in  Kings,  son,  but 
I've  found  'em  when  I  looked  sharp  in  Leviticus." 

"If  you  are  goin'  to  talk  free,  men,  you  can  go  to 
yo'  own  homes  to  do  it,"  remarked  Betsey,  who  was 
accustomed  to  appear  at  unexpected  moments  in 
order  to  impress  them  with  the  necessity  of  earning 
their  supper.  "This  ain't  no  place  for  loose  speakin'," 
she  added,  solemnly  eyeing  young  Adam,  who,  having 
a  weak  memory,  was  striving  to  fix  the  names  of  Kings 
and  Leviticus  in  his  mind  by  repeating  them  slowly 
to  himself. 

"Axin'  yo'  pardon,  Mrs.  Bottom,  we  didn't  know  a 
lady  was  in  hearin'  or  we'd  never  have  made  so  bold," 
said  old  Adam.  "Stop  workin'  yo'  lips,  son,  an* 
hand  Mrs.  Bottom  a  cheer." 

"What's  all  this  talk  anyway  about  Molly  Merry- 
weather  an'  Mr.  Jonathan?"  she  demanded.  "Abel, 
Jiave  you  heard  anything  about  it?" 
.  The  men  glanced  at  each  other  with  uneasy  eyes, 
while  they  worked  nervously  at  the  shucking,  for  the 
question  had  been  in  the  air  from  the  moment  of  Abel's 
entrance,  though  none  of  them  had  been  bold  enough 
to  speak  it  aloud.  And  now  a  woman,  with  charac 
teristic  feminine  recklessness,  had  uttered  the  thought 


800  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

which  had  been  revolving  in  each  mind  for  ten  minutes 
—  yet  nothing  had  happened! 

Old  Adam,  pausing  for  the  first  time  in  his  work, 
glanced  with  ungrudging  respect  at  the  short,  lumpy 
figure  in  the  black  calico  dress.  Her  face  was  still 
comely,  and  there  was  the  mild  mulishness  in  her  ex 
pression  that  is  seen  in  the  countenances  of  many 
amiable  yet  obstinate  persons. 

"No,  I  haven't  heard,"  replied  Abel,  and  he  added 
a  moment  later,  "What  do  they  say?" 

"Well,  Mr.  Halloween  had  it  from  a  man  in  Apple- 
gate  who  had  it  from  a  man  in  Petersburg  who  had 
it  from  a  man  in  Richmond." 

"Had  what?" 

"That  Mr.  Jonathan  had  been  waitin*  on  her 
steady  for  some  months,  an'  'twas  mo'  likely  than  not 
to  end  in  marriage.  She's  a  good  girl,  is  Molly.  I 
ain't  got  no  use  for  a  woman  that  don't  stand  up  for 
her  sex  in  the  face  of  men." 

"True,  true,"  admitted  her  hearers  solemnly,  one 
after  another,  for  none  among  them  had  ever  dared 
to  defy  the  source  of  so  many  benefactions. 

"Thar're  some  that  thinks  morals  ain't  meant  for 
any  but  women,"  she  pursued,  "but  I  ain't  one  of 
*em,  as  William  Ming  can  testify,  that  holds  to  that 
view.  Viciousness  is  viciousness  whether  it  be  male 
or  female,  and  Mr.  Mullen  himself  in  the  pulpit 
couldn't  convince  me  that  it  don't  take  two  to  make 
an  impropriety." 

"True,  true,"  they  repeated,  belying  themselves 
tinder  coercion  in  the  accents  of  the  chorus  in  a  Greek 
drama.  "'Tis  true,  ma'am,  as  you  speak  it." 

"Thar  were  some  mean  enough  to  side  against  the 


ABEL  HEARS  GOSSIP  AND  SEES  A  VISION   301 

po'  innocent  from  the  hour  of  her  birth,"  she  continued 
oracularly,  while  she  looked  severely  at  Solomon,  who 
nodded  in  response,  "an*  these  same  folks  have  been 
preachin'  over  her  an*  pintin'  at  her  ever  sence  she 
larned  to  crawl  out  of  the  cradle.  But  thar  never  w^as 
a  kinder  heart  or  a  quicker  hand  in  trouble  than 
Molly's,  an5  if  she  did  play  fast  and  loose  with  the 
men,  was  it  any  worse,  I'd  like  to  know,  than  they 
deserve?" 

"Thar's  truth  in  what  you  say,  ma'am,  thar's  a 
deal  of  truth  in  it,"  they  agreed,  nodding  dejected 
craven  heads  over  their  pipes.  Like  all  born  poli 
ticians,  their  eye  was  for  the  main  chance  rather  than 
for  the  argument,  and  they  found  it  easier  to  forswear 
a  conviction  than  to  forego  a  comfort. 

"Well,  I'm  roastin'  a  young  possum  along  with  the 
squirrel  stew,  so  you'd  better  work  up  an  appetite," 
she  said  in  a  mollified  tone  at  the  end  of  her  lecture, 
as  though  she  were  desirous  of  infusing  a  more  ardent 
spirit  into  them  before  her  departure. 

When  the  barn  door  closed  behind  her,  a  sigh  of 
relief,  half  stifled  through  fear  of  detection,  passed 
round  the  group. 

"Thar  goes  a  woman  in  a  thousand,"  observed  old 
Adam,  edging  nearer  the  bin. 

"In  a  million  —  let's  make  it  a  million,"  urged 
Solomon  Hatch. 

"If  they  were  all  like  that  the  world  would  be 
different,  Mr.  Doolittle,"  remarked  Jim  Halloween. 

"Ah,  yes,  it  would  be  different,"  agreed  old  Adam, 
and  he  sighed  again. 

"Thar'd  be  strict  walkin'  among  us,  I  reckon,"  said 
his  son. 


302  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

"An'  a  chalk  line  the  same  as  we  draw  for  the  sex," 
added  Solomon  Hatch. 

"Sin  would  be  scarce  then  an'  life  earnest,"  re 
marked  William  Ming,  who  had  alluded  to  Betsey  in 
the  most  distant  terms  ever  since  he  had  married  her. 

"We'd  abide  by  the  letter  like  the  women,  not  by 
the  spirit  as  we  do,"  reflected  Solomon. 

They  sighed  for  the  third  time  more  heavily,  and 
the  dried  husks  on  the  floor  around  the  bin  rattled  as 
though  a  strong  wind  had  entered. 

"But  she's  one  in  a  million,  Mr.  Doolittle,"  pro 
tested  Solomon,  after  a  pause,  and  his  tone  had  grown 
cheerful. 

"Yes,  I  reckon  it's  a  million.  Thar  ain't  mo*  than 
one  in  a  million  of  that  rare  sort,"  responded  old  Adam, 
falling  to  work  with  a  zest. 

"Was  that  ar  young  possum  she  spoke  of  the  one 
yo*  dawg  Bess  treed  day  befo'  yesterday,  William?" 
inquired  Jim  Halloween,  whose  hopes  were  centred 
upon  the  reward  of  his  labours. 

"Naw!  that  was  an  old  un,"  replied  WTilliam.  "But 
thar  never  was  a  better  possum  dawg  than  that  Bess 
of  ours.  I  declar,  she's  got  so  much  sense  that  she'll 
tree  anything  that  grins  at  her,  whether  it's  nigger  or 
possum.  Ain't  that  so,  old  gal?"  he  inquired  of  the 
spotted  hound  on  a  bed  of  husks  at  his  side.  "It 
wan't  no  longer  than  last  week  that  she  kept  that 
little  nigger  of  Uncle  Boaz's  up  a  persimmon  tree  for 
mo'n  an  hour." 

"Thar's  some  niggers  that  look  so  much  like  pos 
sums  when  they  git  up  in  persimmon  branches  that 
it  takes  a  sharp  eye  to  tell  the  difference,"  observed 
Tim  Mallory. 


ABEL  HEARS  GOSSIP  AND  SEES  A  VISION   303 

"Well,  I'm  partial  to  possum,"  remarked  old  Adam. 
"  When  all's  said,  thar  ain't  a  better  meat  to  the  taste  as 
long  as  it's  plump  an'  juicy.  Will  you  hand  on  that 
jug  of  cider,  Tim?  It's  wonderful  the  way  corn 
shuckin'  manages  to  parch  the  throat  an'  whet  the 
appetite." 

The  miller,  who  had  declined  Betsey's  feast  of 
possum,  went  out  as  soon  as  he  had  finished  his  pipe, 
and  turned  into  the  sunken  road  that  led  to  Solomon 
Hatch's.  In  the  little  "best  room,"  which  was 
opened  only  for  "courtings"  or  funerals,  he  found 
Judy  seated  under  a  dim  lamp  with  a  basket  of  darning 
in  her  lap. 

"I  was  over  at  Mrs.  Mullen's  this  morning,"  she 
explained,  "an'  she  told  me  her  eyesight  was  failing, 
so  I  offered  to  do  her  darnin'." 

Slipping  a  small  round  gourd  into  the  toe  of  a  man's 
black  sock,  she  examined  it  attentively,  with  her  needle 
poised  in  the  lamplight.  Then  bending  her  head 
slightly  sideways,  she  surveyed  her  stitches  from 
another  angle,  while  she  smoothed  the  darn  with 
short  caressing  strokes  over  the  gourd.  He  thought 
how  capable  and  helpful  she  was,  and  from  the  cheerful 
energy  with  which  she  plied  her  needle,  he  judged  that 
it  gave  her  pleasure  merely  to  be  of  use.  What  he  did 
not  suspect  was  that  her  wedding  garments  had  been 
thrust  aside  as  of  less  importance  than  Mrs.  Mullen's 
basket  of  darning.  She  was  just  the  girl  for  a  farmer's 
wife,  he  told  himself  as  he  watched  her  —  plain  and 
sensible,  the  kind  that  would  make  a  good  mother  and 
a  good  manager.  And  all  the  time  a  voice  in  the  back 
of  his  brain  was  repeating  distinctly.  "They  say  it 
will  end  in  a  marriage  —  they  say  it  will  end  in  a 


304  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

marriage."  But  this  voice  seemed  to  come  from  a 
distance,  and  to  have  no  connection  either  with  his 
thoughts  or  with  his  life.  It  was  independent  of  his 
will,  and  while  it  was  speaking,  he  went  on  calmly 
thinking  of  Judy's  children  and  of  how  well  and 
properly  she  would  bring  them  up. 

"I  went  over  again  to  look  at  the  steer  to-day," 
lie  said,  after  a  moment,  "fnere's  a  Jersey  cow,  too, 
I  think  of  buying." 

She  nodded,  pausing  in  her  work,  yet  keeping  her 
gaze  fixed  on  the  point  of  her  needle.  If  he  had  looked 
at  her  darning,  he  would  have  seen  that  it  was  woven  of 
exquisite  and  elaborate  stitches  —  such  stitches  as 
went  into  ecclesiastical  embroideries  in  the  Middle 
Ages. 

"They're  the  best  kind  for  butter,"  she  observed, 
and  carefully  ran  her  needle  crosswise  in  and  out  of 
the  threads. 

Conversation  was  always  desultory  between  them, 
and  when  it  flagged,  as  it  did  now,  they  could  sit  for 
hours  in  the  composed  and  unembarrassed  silence 
of  persons  who  meet  upon  the  firm  basis  of  mutual 
assistance  in  practical  matters.  Their  relation  was 
founded  upon  the  simple  law  of  racial  continuance, 
which  is  as  indifferent  to  the  individual  as  it  is  to  the 
abstract  apotheosis  of  passion. 

"I'm  going  to  Applegate  to-morrow  to  order  a  new 
mill-stone,"  he  said  at  last,  when  he  rose.  "Is  there 
anything  you  would  like  me  to  get  for  you?" 

She  reflected  a  moment.  "I  need  a  quarter  of  a 
yard  of  braid  to  finish  the  green  dress  I  am  making. 
Could  you  match  it?" 

"I'll  try  if  you'll  give  me  a  sample." 


ABLE  HEARS  GOSSIP  AND  SEES  A  VISION  305 

Laying  her  work  aside  for  the  first  time,  she  hunted 
amid  a  number  of  coloured  spools  in  her  basket,  and 
brought  to  light  a  bit  of  silver  braid,  which  she  handed 
to  him. 

"Was  Mr.  Mullen  at  your  house  to-day,  Abel?" 
she  asked  suddenly,  turning  her  face  from  the  lamp. 

"Yes,  he  comes  to  see  Blossom  now,  but  she  doesn't 
appear  to  care  for  him.  I  thought  she  did  once, 
didn't  you?" 

"Yes,  I  thought  she  did,  but  that  was  when  he  was 
in  love  with  Molly,  wasn't  it?" 

For  an  instant  he  gazed  at  the  bit  of  braid,  as 
though  his  soul  were  intent  upon  unravelling  the 
intricate  pattern. 

"I  wonder  whether  it  is  that  we  get  a  thing  when 
we  stop  wanting  it  or  that  we  merely  stop  wanting 
it  when  we  get  it?"  he  demanded  passionately  of 
fate. 

But  Judy  had  no  mind  for  dubious  philosophies. 
The  thing  she  wanted  she  knew  she  should  never  get 
and  she  knew  as  well  that,  in  all  likelihood,  she  should 
never  stop  wanting  it.  Only  a  passionate  soul  in  a 
commonplace  body  could  have  squandered  itself  with 
such  superb  prodigality. 

"I  don't  know,"  she  answered  wearily,  "I've  never 
noticed  much  either  what  people  get  or  what  they 
want." 

"Well,  Blossom  wanted  Mr.  Mullen  once  and  now 
he  wants  Blossom.  I  wish  mother  didn't  have  so 
poor  an  opinion  of  him." 

She  flushed  and  looked  up  quickly,  for  in  her  heart 
she  felt  that  she  hated  Sarah  Revercomb.  A  disgust 
for  her  coming  marriage  swept  over  her.  Then  she 


306  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

told  herself  stubbornly  that  everybody  married  sooner 
or  later,  and  that  anyway  her  stepmother  would  never 
forgive  her  if  she  broke  off  with  Abel. 

"She  doesn't  even  go  to  his  church.  I  don't  see 
what  right  she  has  to  find  fault  with  him,"  she  said. 

"That's  her  way,  you  know.  You  can't  make  her 
over.  She  pretends  he  doesn't  know  his  Scripture, 
and  when  he  comes  to  see  Blossom,  she  asks  him  all 
sorts  of  ridiculous  questions  just  to  embarrass  him. 
Yesterday  she  told  him  she  couldn't  call  to  mind  the 
difference  in  cubits  between  the  length  and  the  breadth 
of  Solomon's  temple,  and  would  he  please  save  her 
the  trouble  of  going  to  the  Bible  to  find  out?" 

"Does  she  want  him  to  stop  coming?"  inquired 
Judy,  breathlessly. 

"I  don't  know  what  she  wants,  but  I  wish  Blossom 
would  marry  him,  don't  you?" 

"Don't  I?"  she  repeated,  and  her  basket  of  spools 
fell  to  the  floor,  where  they  scattered  on  the  square 
rag  carpet  of  log-cabin  pattern.  As  they  were  gather 
ing  them  up,  their  heads  touched  by  accident,  and  he 
kissed  her  gravely.  For  a  moment  she  thought,  while 
she  gazed  into  his  brilliant  eyes,  "Abel  is  really 
very  handsome,  after  all."  Then  folding  her  work 
carefully,  she  stuck  her  needle  through  the  darn  and 
placed  the  basket  on  a  shelf  between  a  Bible  with  gilt 
clasps  and  a  wreath  of  pressed  flowers  under  a  glass 
case.  "He  couldn't  have  got  anybody  tp  fill  in  those 
holes  better,"  she  said  to  herself,  and  the  reflection 
was  not  without  a  balm  for  her  aching  heart. 

At  dawn  next  morning  Abel  passed  again,  driving  in 
the  direction  of  the  Applegate  road.  The  day  was  break 
ing  clear  and  still,  and  over  the  autumnal  pageantry 


ABEL  HEARS  GOSSIP  AND  SEES  A  VISION  307 

in  the  abandoned  fields,  innumerable  silver  cobwebs 
shone  iridescent  in  the  sunrise.  Squirrels  were  already 
awake,  busily  harvesting,  and  here  and  there  a  rabbit 
bobbed  up  from  beneath  a  shelter  of  sassafras.  Over 
head  the  leaves  on  a  giant  chestnut  tree  hung  as  heavily 
as  though  they  were  cut  out  of  copper,  and  beyond  a 
sharp  twist  in  the  corduroy  road,  a  branch  of  sweet 
gum  curved  like  a  bent  flame  on  the  edge  of  the  twi 
light  dimness  of  the  forest.  The  scarlet  of  the  leaves 
reminded  him  of  the  colour  of  Molly's  jacket,  and 
immediately  the  voice  somewhere  in  his  brain  repeated, 
"They  say  it  will  end  in  a  marriage."  The  words  awoke 
in  him  a  violent  and  unreasonable  resentment.  He 
could  think  of  his  own  marriage  quite  calmly,  as 
something  that  did  not  bear  directly  upon  his  ideal 
of  Molly;  but  the  conception  of  her  as  Gay's  wife, 
struck  a  blow  at  the  image  he  had  enskied  and  then 
schooled  himself  into  worshipping  from  a  distance. 
He  was  willing  to  relinquish  her  as  too  fair  and 
flitting  for  mortal  embraces,  but  the  thought  that 
another  man  should  possess  that  elusive  loveliness 
was  like  the  thrust  of  hot  iron  into  his  wound.  That 
Molly  loved  Gay  he  could  not  believe.  That  she  was 
willing  to  marry  him  without  loving  him,  was  a  sugges 
tion  which  appeared  to  him  little  short  of  an  insult. 
True,  he  did  not  love  Judy  to  whom  he  was  to  be  married 
to-morrow,  but  that  was  a  case  so  entirely  and  utterly 
different  that  there  could  be  no  comparison!  He  was 
doing  it  because  he  was  sorry  for  Judy  and  it  was 
the  only  way  he  could  help  her.  Besides,  had  not 
Molly  urged  such  a  step  upon  him  repeatedly  as  the 
fulfilment  of  his  obvious  destiny? 

The  reasons  were  all  there.     He  had  them  labelled 


308  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

and  assorted  in  his  mind,  ready  for  instant  reference 
should  they  be  required.  Sleepless  nights  had  gone 
to  the  preparation  of  them,  and  yet  —  and  yet  —  in 
his  heart  he  knew,  beyond  contradiction,  that  he 
was  wedding  Judy  because  his  pity  had  once  made  a 
fool  of  him.  He  had  acted  from  the  loftiest  motives 
when  he  had  asked  her  to  marry  him,  and  twenty-four 
hours  later  he  would  have  given  ten  years  of  his  life 
to  have  been  able  to  eliminate  those  lofty  motives  from 
his  character.  To  go  back  on  her  was,  of  course, 
out  of  the  question.  In  the  history  of  Old  Church  no 
man  —  with  the  exception  of  two  drunkards  and  old 
Mr.  Jonathan  Gay  —  had  ever  gone  back  on  a  woman. 
With  girls  it  was  different,  since  they,  being  senti 
mentally  above  the  proneness  to  error  as  well  as 
practically  below  the  liability  for  maintenance,  might 
play  fast  and  loose  wherever  their  fleeting  fancy  alighted. 
But  in  the  case  of  his  unhappy  sex,  an  honourable 
inclination  once  yielded  to,  was  established  for 
ever.  His  sacrifice  was  sanctioned  by  custom.  There 
was  no  escape  since  it  was  tradition  that  held  him 
by  the  throat. 

His  business  in  Applegate,  which  included  a  careful 
matching  of  Judy's  braid,  took  up  the  entire  morn 
ing;  and  it  was  dinner  time  before  he  turned  back  to 
the  little  inn,  known  as  Raleigh's  Tavern,  at  which 
the  farmers  usually  stopped  for  meals.  Here,  after 
washing  his  hands  in  a  basin  on  the  back  porch,  he 
hastily  smoothed  his  hair,  and  passed  into  the  small 
paved  court  in  front  of  the  tavern.  As  he  approached 
the  doorway,  the  figure  of  a  young  woman  in  a  black 
dress,  which  he  felt  instinctively  did  not  "belong"  to" 
Applegate,  came  down  the  short  steps,  and  paused 


ABEL  HEARS  GOSSIP  AND  SEES  A  VISION    309 

an  instant  to  caress  a  large  dog  that  was  lying  in  the 
sunshine  near  the  entrance.  The  next  minute,  while 
he  fell  back,  hat  in  hand,  behind  a  pile  of  boxes  in 
the  yard,  he  heard  his  name  called  in  a  familiar 
voice,  and  lifting  his  eyes  found  himself  face  to  face 
with  Molly. 

"Abel,  aren't  you  going  to  speak  to  me?"  she  asked, 
and  moving  a  step  toward  him,  held  out  both  hands 
with  an  impulsive  gesture. 

As  his  hand  met  hers,  he  withdrew  it  quickly  as 
though  he  were  stung  by  the  touch  of  her  soft  fingers. 
Every  nerve  in  his  body  leaped  suddenly  to  life, 
and  the  moment  was  so  vivid  while  he  faced  her,  that 
he  felt  half  convinced  that  all  the  long  months  since 
their  parting  had  dissolved  in  shadows.  The  border 
line  between  the  dream  and  the  actuality  was  obliter 
ated.  It  seemed  to  him  not  only  impossible,  but 
absurd  that  he  should  ever  have  believed  himself 
engaged  to  Judy  Hatch  —  that  he  should  be  going  to 
marry  her  to-morrow!  All  that  side  of  his  life  had  no 
closer  relation  to  his  real  self  than  it  had  to  the  self 
of  old  Adam  Doolittle.  While  he  had  planned  it 
he  had  been  a  corpse  not  a  living  man,  but  at  the  sound 
of  Molly's  voice,  at  the  clasp  of  her  fingers,  at  the 
touching,  expectant  brightness  in  her  eyes,  the  res 
urrection  had  happened.  Judy  was  a  corpse  pre 
paring  to  wed  a  corpse  that  had  become  alive  — 
and  the  mating  of  death  with  life  was  abhorrent  to 
him  in  his  illumination. 

"We  are  on  our  way  to  Richmond,"  explained  Molly, 
very  gently,  "and  we  are  waiting  to  change  trains. 
Oh,  Abel,  I  have  wanted  so  much  to  see  you!" 

It  was  the  old  Molly,  in  truth  —  Molly  in  her  softest, 


310  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

in  her  most  dangerous,  in  her  divinest  mood.  While 
he  gazed  at  her  he  could  make  no  answer  because 
an  emotion  that  was  half  self-reproach,  half  furious 
longing,  choked  back  his  words,  and  had  he  opened  his 
lips  it  would  have  been  to  utter  some  foolish  inarticu 
late  arraignment  of  destiny.  In  the  confusion  of  his 
senses  he  did  not  notice  that  she  had  altered,  but  the 
next  day  he  remembered  that  her  face  looked  smaller 
and  more  delicate,  like  a  tinted  egg-shell  he  had  once 
seen,  and  that  her  eyes  in  consequence  were  won- 
drously,  were  almost  startlingly,  large.  All  that  he 
was  conscious  of  when  he  turned  and  rushed  from  her 
after  that  one  look,  was  that  the  old  agony  of  his  loss 
had  resurged  afresh  in  his  heart. 


CHAPTER  IV 

HIS    DAY    OF    FREEDOM 

HE  CROSSED  the  courtyard,  and  turned  mechanically 
into  a  street  which  led  in  the  opposite  direction  from 
the  road  to  Old  Church.  A  crowd  of  men,  gathered 
in  the  doorway  of  the  post-office,  called  to  him  to  join 
them,  and  he  answered  in  a  voice  that  sounded  remote 
and  cheerful  in  his  own  ears. 

"If  you  want  to  whip  the  bosses  in  these  parts 
there's  the  man  for  you,"  he  heard  one  of  them  re 
mark,  and  knew  that  they  were  discussing  his  political 
chances.  Quickening  his  steps,  he  walked  rapidly 
to  the  end  of  the  street,  passed  the  scattered  negro 
hovels,  surrounded  by  blighted  sunflowers,  and 
turned  into  a  road  which  ran  between  fields  of 
dusty  stubble  into  a  stretch  of  brown  and  desolate 
country. 

Suddenly,  as  though  a  screw  had  loosened  in  his 
brain,  he  felt  his  passion  slip  the  control  of  his  will 
and  beat  down,  one  by  one,  the  orderly  procession  of 
reasons  that  had  risen  against  it.  A  sense  of  exhilar 
ation,  of  joy  so  fierce  that  it  was  akin  to  pain,  took 
possession  of  him.  "I  won't  go  back!"  he  said  de 
fiantly,  "I  won't  go  back!"  And  with  the  words  his 
longing  for  Molly  was  swallowed  up  in  the  tumultuous 
consciousness  of  his  release.  It  was  as  if  he  had  burst 
his  bonds  by  a  single  effort  of  strength,  and  was  stretch 
ing  his  cramped  limbs  in  the  open.  The  idea  of 

311 


312  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

escape  from  captivity  was  so  strong,  that  he  looked 
neither  to  right  nor  to  left  of  him,  but  kept  his  gaze 
fixed  on  the  road  straight  ahead,  as  a  man  does  who 
saves  his  energy  for  the  final  break  from  his  pursuers. 
At  the  moment  he  would  have  bartered  his  soul  in 
exchange  for  the  unholy,  the  nameless  rapture  of 
the  vagabond  and  the  gipsy,  of  all  the  neglected 
and  the  despised  of  civilization.  Duty,  love,  ambition 
—  all  these  were  as  nothing  beside  the  perfect,  the 
incommunicable  passion  of  the  open  road! 

It  is  a  mood  that  comes  once  to  every  man  —  to 
some  men  more  frequently  —  a  mood  in  which  the 
prehistoric  memory  of  the  soul  is  stirred,  and  an 
intolerable  longing  arises  for  the  ancient  nomadic 
freedom  of  the  race;  when  the  senses  surfeited  by 
civilization  cry  out  for  the  strong  meat  of  the  jungle  — 
for  the  scent  of  the  raw,  dark  earth  and  for  the  gleam  of 
the  yellow  moonlight  on  the  wet,  rustling  leaves.  This 
longing  may  come  but  once  in  adolescence,  or  many 
times  until  the  frost  of  age  has  withered  the  senses. 
It  may  come  amid  the  showery  warmth  and  the  rov 
ing  fragrance  of  an  April  day,  or  beside  the  shining, 
brown,  leaf-strewn  brooks  of  November.  But  let 
it  come  to  a  man  when  it  will,  and  that  man  renounces, 
in  spite  of  himself,  his  little  leaden  gods  of  prosperity, 
and  in  his  heart,  beneath  the  woven  garment  of  cus 
tom,  he  exchanges  his  birthright  of  respectability 
for  a  mess  of  Romany  pottage.  Under  the  luminous 
sweep  and  rush  of  this  vision,  Abel  laughed  suddenly 
at  the  thought  of  his  marriage  to  Judy.  Obstacles 
which  had  appeared  insurmountable  at  sunrise, 
showed  now  as  unsubstantial  and  evanescent  as 
shadows. 


HIS  DAY  OF  FREEDOM  SIS 

"I  won't  go  back!"  he  repeated  exultantly,  "I 
won't  go  back!" 

"You're  talkin'  to  yo'self,  mister,"  said  a  voice 
at  his  side,  and  looking  down  he  saw  a  small  bare 
footed  boy,  in  overalls,  with  a  bag  of  striped  purple 
calico  hanging  from  one  shoulder. 

"You've  been  talkin'  to  yo'self  all  along  the  road," 
the  boy  repeated  with  zest. 

"Have  I?     What  are  you  up  to?" 

"I've  been  chmquapinin'.  Ma,  she  thinks  I'm 
at  school,  but  I  ain't."  He  looked  up  wickedly, 
bubbling  over  with  the  shameless  joys  of  truancy. 
"Thar's  a  lot  of  chinquapin  bushes  over  yonder  in 
Cobblestone's  wood  an'  they're  chock  full  of  nuts." 

"And  they're  in  your  bag  now,  I  suppose?" 

"I've  got  a  peck  of  'em,  an'  I'm  goin'  to  make  me 
a  chain  as  long  as  —  that.  It'll  be  a  watch  chain, 
an'  I've  made  a  watch  out  of  a  walnut.  It  can't 
keep  time,  of  course,"  he  added,  "'cep'n  for  that  it's 
really  a  sho'  nough  watch."  His  small  freckled  face, 
overhung  by  a  mat  of  carroty  hair,  was  wreathed  in 
a  contagious,  an  intoxicating  smile  —  the  smile  of 
one  who  has  bought  happiness  at  the  price  of  duty,  and 
whose  enjoyment  is  sweetened  by  the  secret  knowledge 
that  he  has  successfully  eluded  the  Stern  Daughter 
of  the  Voice  of  God.  Instinctively,  Abel  was  aware 
that  the  savour  was  not  in  the  chinquapins,  but  in 
the  disobedience,  and  his  heart  warmed  to  the  boy 
with  the  freckled  face. 

"Are  you  going  home  now?"  he  asked. 

"You  bet  I  ain't.  I've  got  my  snack  ma  fixed  for 
me."  He  unrolled  a  brown  paper  package  and  re 
vealed  two  thick  slices  of  bread  with  a  fishing  hook 


314  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

stuck  in  one  corner.  "Thar's  apple-butter  between 
'em,"  he  added,  rolling  his  tongue,  and  a  minute 
later,  "Ma'd  whip  me  jest  the  same,  an'  I'd  ruther 
be  whipped  for  a  whole  day  than  for  a  half.  Besides," 
he  burst  out  as  though  the  mental  image  convulsed 
him  with  delight,  "if  I  went  home  I'd  have  to  help 
her  tote  the  water  for  the  washin'.  " 

"But  what  are  you  going  to  do  with  yourself?" 

"I'm  goin'  huntin'  with  a  gravel  shooter,  an'  I'm 
goin'  fishin'  with  a  willow  pole,  an'  I'm  goin'  to  find 
all  the  old  hare  traps,  an'  I'm  goin'  to  see  'em  make 
hog's  meat  over  at  Bryarly's,  an'  I'm  goin'  to  the  cider 
pressin'  down  here  at  Cobblestone's.  She  ain't  goin' 
to  ketch  me  till  I've  had  my  day!"  he  concluded  with 
a  whoop  of  ecstasy.  Startled  by  the  sound,  a  rabbit 
sprang  up  from  a  clump  of  sassafras,  and  the  boy  was 
over  the  fence,  on  a  rush  of  happy  bare  feet,  in 
pursuit  of  it. 

The  road  curved  abruptly  into  a  short  wood,  filled 
with  dwarfed  holly  trees,  which  were  sown  thickly 
with  a  shower  of  scarlet  berries  —  and  while  Abel 
walked  through  it,  his  visions  thronged  beside  him 
like  the  painted  and  artificial  troupe  of  a  carnival. 
He  saw  Molly  coming  to  him,  separating  him  from 
Judy,  surrendering  her  warm  flesh  and  blood  to  his 
arms.  "I  won't  go  back!"  he  said,  still  defiantly, 
"I'll  love  Molly  if  I  pay  for  it  to  the  last  day  I  live." 
With  a  terrible  exultation  he  felt  that  he  was  willing 
to  pay  for  it  —  to  pay  any  price,  even  the  price  of 
his  honour.  His  passion  rushed  like  a  flame  through 
his  blood,  scorching,  blackening,  devouring. 

Beyond  the  wood,  the  winding  ash-coloured  road 
dipped  into  a  hollow,  and  when  he  reached  the  brow 


HIS  DAY  OF  FREEDOM  315 

of  the  low  hill  ahead,  a  west  wind,  which  had  risen 
suddenly  from  the  river,  caught  up  with  his  footsteps 
and  raced  on  like  a  wild  thing  at  his  side.  He  could 
hear  it  sighing  plaintively  in  the  bared  trees  he  had 
left,  or  driving  the  hurtled  leaves  like  a  flock  of  fright 
ened  partridges  over  the  sumach  and  sassafras,  and 
then  lashing  itself  into  a  frenzy  as  it  chased  over  a  level 
of  broomsedge.  Always  it  sang  of  freedom  —  of  the 
savage  desire  and  thirst  for  freedom  —  of  the  ineffable, 
the  supreme  ecstasy  of  freedom !  And  always  while  he 
listened  to  it,  while  he  felt  the  dead  leaves  stinging  his 
flesh,  he  told  himself  passionately  that  he  "would  not 
go  back  —  that  he  would  not  marry  to-morrow!" 

For  hours  he  stalked  with  the  wind.  Then,  turning 
out  of  the  road,  he  flung  himself  down  on  the  broom - 
sedge  and  lay  for  other  hours  gazing  over  the  autumn 
landscape  to  the  softly  luminous  band  on  the  far 
horizon.  Somewhere  in  a  darkened  corner  of  his 
brain  there  was  the  resolve  that  he  would  not  return 
until,  like  the  freckled  faced,  barefooted  boy,  he  had 
"had  his  day." 

At  nine  o'clock  that  night  he  entered  an  inn  in  the 
town  of  Briarwood,  twenty  miles  north  of  Applegate, 
and  sitting  down  at  one  of  the  tables,  ordered  some 
thing  to  eat.  His  limbs  ached,  not  from  the  walk 
in  the  wind,  but  from  the  passion  that  had  whipped 
his  body  like  a  destroying  fire.  He  felt  still  the 
burning  throb  of  the  sore  that  it  had  left.  Apart 
from  this  dull  agony  he  could  feel  nothing  —  he  could 
desire  nothing  —  he  could  remember  nothing.  Every 
thing  was  over  except  the  instinct  that  told  him  that 
he  was  empty  and  must  be  fed. 

While  he  sat  there,  with  his  aching  forehead  bowed 


316  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

in  his  hands,  there  came  a  light  touch  on  his  shoulder, 
and  looking  up  he  saw  the  Reverend  Orlando  Mullen, 
standing  at  his  side  like  an  embodiment  of  all  the 
things  from  which  he  had  fled.  For  an  instant  he 
could  only  stare  blindly  back  at  him.  Then  some 
thing  which  had  opened  in  his  soul,  closed  softly,  as  if 
it  were  a  shell  of  custom,  and  he  knew  that  he  was 
again  a  prisoner.  With  the  sight  of  that  con 
ventional  figure,  the  scattered  instincts  of  habit 
and  of  respectability — of  all  the  qualities  for  which  the 
race  stood  and  against  which  the  individual  had  re 
belled  —  all  these  rallied  anew  to  the  battlefield  from 
which  they  had  been  routed  by  his  insurgent  emotions. 

"I  suppose  you're  waiting,  like  myself,  Mr.  Rever- 
comb,  for  the  nine-forty-five  train?" 

"Yes,  I'm  waiting  for  the  train." 

"Business  brought  you  so  far  away?" 

"Yes,  business  brought  me."  Lifting  his  glass  of 
beer,  he  drained  it  slowly  under  Mr.  Mullen's  friendly 
and  curious  eyes. 

"It  looks  as  if  we  should  have  a  perfect  day  for 
the  wedding,"  remarked  the  rector,  after  a  pause. 
"Like  you,  I  was  called  off  on  an  urgent  matter,  but, 
fortunately,  it  only  means  losing  a  little  sleep." 

Then  the  whistle  of  the  train  blew,  and  ten  minutes 
later,  Abel  followed  the  young  clergyman  into  the 
single  coach  and  sat  down  in  a  vacant  seat  at  his  side. 

It  was  two  o'clock  when  at  last  he  drove  into  the 
back  gate  at  the  mill,  and  unhitching  his  mare,  turned 
her  out  into  the  pasture.  As  he  crossed  the  road  to 
the  house,  he  lifted  his  eyes  mechanically  to  the  sky, 
and  saw  that  the  stars  shone  soft  and  near  as  if  they 
were  watching  over  a  night  of  love. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  SHAPING  OF  MOLLY 

LEANING  back  in  the  uncomfortable  plush-covered 
chair  in  the  train  to  Richmond,  Molly  watched  the 
flat  landscape  glide  past,  while  she  thought  a  little 
wistfully  of  the  morning  she  had  made  this  same  trip 
dressed  in  one  of  Mrs.  Gay's  gowns.  On  her  knees 
Mrs.  Gay's  canary,  extinguished  beneath  the  black 
silk  cover  to  his  cage,  uttered  from  time  to  time  a 
feeble  pipe  of  inquiry,  and  on  the  rack  above  her  head 
Mrs.  Gay's  tea  basket  rattled  loudly  in  a  sudden 
lurch  of  the  train.  Since  the  hour  in  which  she  had 
left  the  overseer's  cottage  and  moved  into  the  "big 
house"  at  Jordan's  Journey,  the  appealing  little  lady 
had  been  the  dominant  influence  in  her  life  —  an 
influence  so  soft  and  yet  so  overpowering  that  she 
had  at  times  a  sensation  of  being  smothered  in  scented 
swansdown.  For  several  months  after  leaving  Old 
Church  her  education  had  absorbed  her  energies, 
and  she  had  found  time  merely  to  gasp  occasionally 
in  the  oppressive  sweetness  of  the  atmosphere  which 
Mrs.  Gay's  personality  diffused.  Everything  was 
strange  then,  and  her  desire  for  strangeness,  for  un 
familiar  impressions,  had  amounted  to  a  passion. 
She  had  been  very  anxious,  too,  very  much  afraid 
lest  she  should  make  a  mistake.  When  she  had 
entered  the  hotel  dining-room  in  New  York  she  had 
felt  as  if  she  were  walking  on  ploughed  ground, 

317 


318  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

and  the  red  velvet  carpet  had  seemed  to  rise  and  sink 
under  her  feet.  That  first  night  had  been  exquisite 
torture  to  her,  and  so,  she  surmised  through  some 
intuitive  understanding,  had  it  been  to  Kesiah.  For 
weeks  after  that  time  of  embarrassment,  she  had 
watched  herself  carefully  —  watched  every  instant 
—  and  in  the  end  she  had  triumphed.  With  her  grow 
ing  ease,  her  old  impulsiveness  had  returned  to  her, 
and  with  the  wonderful  adaptability  of  the  Southern 
woman,  she  had  soon  ceased  to  feel  a  sense  of  discom 
fort  in  her  changed  surroundings.  The  instinct  of 
class  she  had  never  had,  and  this  lack  of  social  rever 
ence  had  helped  her  not  a  little  in  her  ascent  of  the 
ladder.  It  is  difficult  to  suffer  from  a  distinction 
which  one  does  not  admit  —  and  her  perfect  uncon 
sciousness  of  inferiority  to  Mrs.  Gay  had  placed  her, 
without  her  being  aware  of  it,  in  the  position  of  an 
equal. 

With  her  hands  clasped  on  the  cage  of  the  canary, 
she  gazed  thoughtfully  at  Kesiah,  who  was  sitting 
a  little  in  front  of  her,  with  her  eyeglasses  on  her  nose 
and  the  daily  paper  opened  before  her.  Gay  was  to 
meet  them  in  Richmond,  and  as  Molly  remembered 
this  now,  she  realized  that  her  feeling  about  their 
meeting  had  changed  during  the  last  few  hours.  She 
liked  Gay  —  she  responded  to  his  physical  charm, 
to  that  indefinable  air  of  adventure  which  hangs 
sometimes  about  men  who  have  lived  hard  without 
wasting  their  surplus  vitality  —  but  in  spite  of  the 
strong  attraction  he  possessed  for  her,  she  knew  that 
in  her  heart  she  had  never  thoroughly  believed  in  him. 
Unconsciously  to  herself  she  had  measured  his  stature 
by  Abel's,  and  he  had  come  short  of  her  standard. 


THE  SHAPING  OF  MOLLY  319 

"Molly,"  asked  Mrs.  Gay,  turning  her  head 
suddenly,  "did  you  write  Jonathan  to  expect  us  by 
this  train?" 

"Yes,  Aunt  Angela,  he  knows  we  are  coming. 
Shall  I  lower  the  shade?  Is  the  sunlight  too  strong 
for  you?" 

"No,  thank  you,  dear.     Where  is  Dicky?" 

"I  have  him  here  on  my  knees.  Does  your  head 
ache?" 

"A  little,"  murmured  Mrs.  Gay  in  a  tone  of  resigned 
sweetness,  and  the  conversation  was  over. 

At  the  sound  of  Molly's  voice  an  old  lady,  travelling 
South  with  a  trained  nurse,  turned  in  her  chair,  and 
looked  at  the  girl  as  she  might  have  looked  at  a  fruit 
for  which  she  longed,  but  which  she  had  been  for 
bidden  to  touch.  Her  face,  under  an  elaborate 
bonnet  trimmed  with  artificial  purple  wistaria,  was 
withered  and  crossed  with  lines,  and  her  poor  old 
hands  were  so  knotted  from  gout  that  she  could 
hardly  lift  the  tea-cup  from  the  small  table  which 
had  been  fastened  in  front  of  her.  Y^et  for  one  instant, 
as  she  gazed  on  Molly's  girlish  freshness,  her  youth 
stirred  feebly  somewhere  in  the  dregs  of  her  memory, 
and  her  eyes  grew  deprecating  and  piteous,  as  though 
her  soul  were  saying,  "I  know  I  have  missed  it,  but 
it  isn't  my  fault " 

The  tea-cup  trembled  in  her  hand,  and  her  old  lips 
fumbled  pathetically  for  her  bit  of  toast,  while  across 
from  her,  with  only  the  narrow  aisle  of  the  car  between, 
youth  incarnate  sat  weaving  its  separate  dream  of 
a  universe. 

"  YTes,  two  hours  earlier,"  ran  Molly's  thoughts,  "I 
looked  forward  to  the  meeting  with  Jonathan,  and  now, 


320  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

in  so  short  a  time,  I  have  grown  almost  to^dread  it." 
She  tried  to  think  of  his  pleasant,  well-coloured  face, 
of  his  whimsical,  caressing  smile,  but  in  the  niche  where 

'  his  image  should  have  stood,  she  saw  Abel  in  his 
country  clothes,  with  his  red-brown  throat  rising  out 

*  of  his  blue  shirt  and  his  brilliant  eyes  under  the  dark 
hair  on  his  forehead.  Then  suddenly  memory  played 
her  a  ridiculous  trick,  for  she  remembered  that  his 
hair  grew  in  a  close  clipped  circular  wave,  like  the 
hair  which  has  been  bound  by  a  fillet  on  the  head  of  a 
child. 

"I  wonder  why  he  wouldn't  speak  to  me?"  she 
thought,  with  a  pang.  "I  wonder  if  he  has  really 
got  over  caring?"  She  had  always  thought  of  Abel 
as  a  possession  more  absolutely  her  own  than  even 
Mr.  Jonathan's  provision.  When  she  had  said  so 
passionately  that  she  wanted  to  be  free,  she  had  not 
meant  that  at  any  minute  she  chose,  Abel  would  not 
be  ready  and  willing  to  fly  back  into  bondage.  That 
Abel,  after  all  these  years,  should  actually  have  ceased 
to  care  for  her  —  should  have  refused  even  to  speak 
to  her!  It  was  absurd  —  it  was  vindictive  —  it  was 
unchristian!  She  had  half  a  mind  to  get  Mr.  Mullen 
to  talk  to  him.  Then  her  heart  throbbed  when  she 
remembered  the  touch  of  his  hand,  the  look  in  his 
eyes,  the  thirst  of  his  lips  seeking  hers.  That  was 
only  six  months  ago  —  such  a  very  little  while  —  and 
now  he  had  rushed  away  from  the  sight  of  her!  She 
thought  of  their  parting,  when  she  had  said  that  she 
wanted  to  see  tlie  world,  and  he  had  offered  at  once 
to  release  her.  Since  then  she  had  seen  the  world 
until  she  was  tired  of  it.  At  times  she  had  been 
terribly  homesick  for  Old  Church,  and  she  had  never 


THE  SHAPING  OF  MOLLY  321 

been  happy  except  when  Gay  had  taken  her  to  see 
pictures  or  into  wonderful  parks.  Always  the  thought 
had  lain  hidden  in  her  mind  that  some  day,  when 
she  could  stand  it  no  longer,  she  would  go  back  and 
wear  her  red  jacket  and  run  free  in  the  fields  with 
Abel  again.  Her  very  selfishness  had  seemed  natural 
to  her  because  Abel  had  always  been  there,  like  the 
air  and  the  sky  and  the  broomsedge;  he  was  a  part 
of  the  scene,  and  she  found  it  impossible  to  detach  him 
from  his  surroundings. 

At  the  station  in  Richmond,  Gay  met  them,  and  for 
the  first  few  minutes  his  mother  absorbed  his  atten 
tion.  Molly  had  not  seen  him  for  six  weeks,  and  she 
noticed  that  he  had  grown  fleshier  and  that  this  lent 
an  additional  heaviness  to  his  shaven  chin.  Even  his 
charming  smile  could  not  disguise  the  slight  coarse 
ness  of  feature,  with  which  he  was  beginning  already 
to  pay  for  his  pleasures.  By  the  time  he  was  forty, 
he  would  be  quite  stout  and  "lumpy,"  she  thought. 

There  was  much  excitement  about  collecting  Mrs. 
Gay's  packages,  and  the  drive  to  the  hotel  was  filled 
with  anxious  inquiries  from  Kesiah,  who  was  always 
nervous  and  fussy  when  she  travelled. 

"Molly,  did  you  see  my  umbrella  put  in?" 

"Yes,  Aunt  Kesiah,  it  is  here  in  the  corner  by 
Jonathan." 

"I  forgot  to  notice  Angela's  medicine  case.  Did 
you  see  that  it  wasn't  overlooked?" 

"Yes,  Patsey  has  it." 

Then  came  a  solicitous  exhibition  of  filial  affection 
on  the  part  of  Gay,  and  at  last,  to  Molly's  relief,  they 
arrived  at  the  new,  brilliantly  lighted  hotel,  and  were 
led  through  stifling  corridors,  carpeted  in  red,  to  their 


322  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

rooms  on  the  second  floor  in  the  front  of  the  building. 
As  she  passed  over  the  velvet  carpets,  Molly  had 
again  the  sensation  that  she  was  walking  over  ploughed 
ground;  and  when  she  had  escaped  from  Mrs.  Gay's 
sitting-room,  on  the  pretext  of  dressing  for  dinner, 
she  threw  open  the  window,  and  leaned  out  of  the  close 
atmosphere  into  the  freshness  of  the  November  even 
ing.  This  was  what  she  had  once  looked  upon  as 
pleasure  —  or  at  least  as  exciting  amusement  —  to 
move  continually  from  one  hot  and  overfurnished 
hotel  to  another,  to  fuss  about  missing  packages,  to 
see  crowds  of  strange  faces  passing  before  her,  all 
fat  and  overfed  and  all,  somehow,  looking  exactly 
alike. 

A  wave  of  homesickness  for  the  white  roads  and  the 
golden  broomsedge  of  Old  Church  swept  over  her. 
She  wanted  the  open  fields,  and  more  than  all, 
far  more  than  all,  she  wanted  Abel!  It  was  her 
fault  —  she  had  made  her  choice  —  no  one  else 
was  to  blame  for  it.  And,  then,  though  she  had 
made  her  choice  and  no  one  else  was  to  blame  for 
it,  she  felt  that  she  almost  hated  old  Mr.  Jonathan, 
as  she  still  called  him  in  her  thoughts,  because 
he  had  left  her  his  money.  At  the  bottom  of  her 
heart,  there  was  the  perfectly  unreasonable  sus 
picion  that  he  had  arranged  the  whole  thing  out 
of  spite. 

In  the  sitting-room,  meanwhile,  which  Kesiah's 
bedroom  separated  from  Molly's,  Mrs.  Gay  was 
lying  on  a  couch  beside  a  table  on  which  stood  a  cut- 
glass  bowl  of  purple  orchids  sent  to  her  by  her  son. 
She  was  looking  a  little  pale,  but  this  pallor  was  not 
unbecoming  since  it  enhanced  the  expression  of  appeal- 


THE  SHAPING  OF  MOLLY  32S 

ing  melancholy  in  her  eyes.  To  look  at  her  was  to 
recognize  that  life  had  crushed  her,  and  yet  that  her 
soul  exhaled  an  intenser  sweetness  in  the  midst  of 
its  suffering. 

Jonathan  had  just  gone  down  to  buy  the  evening 
papers;  in  the  next  room  she  could  hear  Kesiah  at 
the  unpacking;  so  she  was  left  for  a  moment  alone 
with  her  imagination.  The  fatigue  of  the  trip  had 
affected  her  nerves,  and  she  sank,  while  she  lay  there 
in  her  travelling  gown,  which  she  had  not  yet  removed, 
into  one  of  those  spells  of  spiritual  discontent  which 
followed  inevitably  any  unusual  physical  discomfort. 
She  thought,  not  resentfully  but  sadly,  that  Kesiah 
managed  to  grow  even  more  obstinate  with  years, 
that  Jonathan  must  have  tired  of  her  or  he  would 
never  have  forgotten  the  list  of  medicines  she  had 
sent  him,  that  Molly  took  Kesiah  away  from  the  sick 
room  entirely  too  often.  From  these  reflections  she 
drifted  naturally  into  an  emotion  of  self  pity,  and 
the  thought  occurred  to  her,  as  it  did  invariably  in 
such  hours  of  depression,  that  her  world  had  never 
been  large  enough  for  the  full  exercise  and  apprecia 
tion  of  her  highest  qualities.  If  she  had  only  lived 
in  a  richer  century  amid  more  congenial  surround 
ings!  Who  could  tell  what  her  usefulness  might 
have  been  had  not  destiny  continually  thwarted  her 
aspirations?  Before  the  idea  of  this  thwarted  use 
fulness,  which  was  always  vaguely  associated  with 
the  moral  regeneration  of  distinguished  historic 
sinners  of  the  opposite  sex,  like  Lord  Byron  or  Alfred 
de  Musset,  she  began  to  feel  that  she  had  been  not 
only  neglected,  but  wasted  in  the  atmosphere  in 
which  she  had  been  placed. 


324  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

Jonathan's  entrance,  with  the  evening  papers  in 
his  hand,  broke  the  thread  of  her  reverie,  and  as  he 
sat  down  in  a  chair  by  her  side,  she  wondered  if  he 
had  inherited  her  "nature"  and  if  he,  also,  cherished 
in  his  soul  the  same  spiritual  yearnings?  Her  wonder 
was,  however,  entirely  unnecessary,  for  Jonathan  had 
very  little  imagination,  and  would  never  have  wasted 
his  time  yearning  over  a  sinner  whom  he  had  never 
seen. 

"I  stopped  a  minute  to  get  into  my  evening 
clothes,"  he  said,  in  the  cheerful  voice  of  one  who  is 
a  stranger  to  aspirations  of  soul.  "I  thought  Molly 
would  be  dressed  by  this  time.  She  is  usually  so 
quick." 

"Yes,  she  is  usually  very  quick,"  replied  Mrs. 
Gay  gently,  while  she  gathered  all  the  forces  of  her 
character,  which  were  slightly  disorganized  by  her 
recent  indulgence  in  pensive  musings,  to  do  battle 
against  an  idea  which  she  had  striven  repeatedly 
of  late  to  banish  from  her  thoughts.  "I  wish,  dear 
Jonathan,"  she  added,  "that  you  would  speak  a 
few  words  to  Molly.  You  have  such  influence  with 
her,  and  I  am  sure  I  don't  wonder." 

"I'll  speak  them  with  pleasure,  mother.  Just 
drop  me  a  hint  as  to  what  they  are  to  be  about." 

"She's  a  sweet,  unselfish  girl,  we  all  know  that, 
but  there  are  times,  dear,  especially  when  strangers 
are  present,  when  she  appears  a  little  —  well,  a  little 
crude  —  you  know  what  I  mean?" 

"I  fancy  I  know,  but  I  don't  see  just  what  we  are 
to  do  about  it.  You  might  as  well  attempt  to  reshape 
Molly's  nose  as  her  character.  Let's  admit  that  both 
might  be  improved  and  then  give  up  the  job.  She's 


THE  SHAPING  OF  MOLLY  325 

got  charm  —  there's  no  doubt  of  that.  I  believe 
even  if  she  were  plain  she'd  be  almost  as  attractive. 
Why,  I've  seen  her  when  she  was  very  nearly  plain 
sometimes,  and  she  hasn't  been  a  whit  less  fascinating 
than  when  she's  looking  her  prettiest.  It's  the 
infinite  variety  and  all  that,  you  know.  Her  soul 
does  it,  I  suppose." 

"Yes,  she  must  have  charm,"  replied  Mrs.  Gay, 
ignoring  what  he  had  said  about  "soul"  because  she 
felt  a  vague  dislike  to  hearing  a  word  applied  indis 
criminately  to  others  which  had  become,  as  it  were, 
associated  with  herself.  "I  can't  analyze  it,  however, 
for  she  hasn't  a  single  really  perfect  feature  except 
her  eyes." 

"But  such  eyes!  In  the  sunlight  they  are  nearer 
the  colour  of  a  humming-bird's  wing  than  anything 
I  know  of." 

"I  suppose  they  are  rather  unusual,  but,  after  all 
a  fine  pair  of  eyes  can't  make  exactly  a  —  well,  a 
lady,  Jonathan." 

"The  deuce!"  he  ejaculated,  and  then  added  quickly, 
"What  has  she  done  now,  mother?" 

One  of  Mrs.  Gay's  first  principles  of  diplomacy  was 
that  an  unpleasant  fact  treated  as  non-existent,  was 
deprived  in  a  measure  of  its  power  for  evil.  By  the 
application  of  this  principle,  she  had  extinguished 
her  brother-in-law's  passion  for  Janet  Merryweather, 
and  she  hoped  that  it  would  prove  equally  effective 
in  blighting  her  son's  incipient  fancy  for  Molly.  She 
looked  upon  Jonathan's  infatuation  as  a  mere  sinis 
ter  shadow  as  yet,  but  she  was  shrewd  enough  to 
suspect  that  the  shadow  would  be  converted  into 
substance  at  the  first  hint  of  her  recognition  that  it 


326  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

was  impending.  Indirect  influence  alone  remained 
to  her,  and  she  surmised  that  her  ultimate  triumph 
would  depend  upon  the  perfection  of  her  indirectness. 
When  it  came  to  the  game  of  strategy,  Jonathan, 
being  of  an  open  nature,  was  no  match  for  his  mother. 
He  was  inclined  by  temperament  to  accept  things  at 
their  face  value  —  particularly  women  —  and  not  to 
worry  about  them  unless  they  interfered  with  his 
appetite.  When  he  lost  his  desire  for  his  meals,  then 
he  began,  somewhat  to  his  surprise,  to  consider  them 
seriously. 

"Of  course  I  feel  just  as  you  do  about  it,"  remarked 
Mrs.  Gay,  after  a  weighty  silence.  "I'm  fond  of 
her  and  I  see  her  good  points  —  but  there's  some 
thing  about  her  —  I  suppose  it's  the  strain  of 
Merryweathe*-  blood,  or  the  fact  of  her  being  born 
in  such  unfortunate  circumstances  — "  Her  manner 
grew  severer.  "But  —  whatever  the  cause,  it  shows 
itself  in  a  kind  of  social  defiance  that  would  al 
ways  keep  her  from  being  just  —  oh,  well,  you 
know " 

"She's  bright  enough,  mother,  she's  quick  enough, 
and  she's  pretty  enough,  isn't  she?" 

"She  would  be,  Jonathan,  if  her  defiance  did  not 
come  from  pure  wilfulness.  But  she  says  and  does 
the  most  unconventional  things  simply  for  the  pleasure 
of  shocking  people.  It  isn't  that  she  doesn't  know, 
it's  that  she  doesn't  care." 

"But  she'll  get  to  care  —  all  women  do,  if  you  give 
them  time."  His  tone  implied  that  the  whole  sex 
was  comprised  in  an  elementary  branch  of  psychology 
which  he  had  mastered  with  the  help  of  a  few  simple 
rules  of  analogy. 


THE  SHAPING  OF  MOLLY  327 

"Well,  she  may,  dear,  but  I  doubt  it.  She  is  as 
absolutely  without  class  instinct  as  an  anarchist, 
I  believe.  When  she  lived  in  the  overseer's  cottage 
she  never  looked  up  and  now  that  she  has  come  out 
of  it,  she  never  looks  down.  We've  told  her  repeatedly 
that  she  mustn't  talk  to  strangers  about  that  part 
of  her  life,  but  it  isn't  the  least  bit  of  use.  Only 
a  few  days  ago  I  heard  her  telling  Judge  Gray  son 
that  nobody  appeared  to  do  any  'courting'  in  New 
York." 

To  her  amazement  he  burst  into  a  laugh. 

"By  Jove,  I  suppose  she  misses  it,"  he  returned, 
"but  what  about  that  fellow  she  picked  up  in  the 
North  who  hung  around  her  last  summer?" 

"Oh,  there  have  been  plenty  of  them  hanging  about 
her.  Molly  is  the  kind,  you  know,  that  will  have 
lovers  wherever  you  put  her."  There  was  a  faint 
condescension  in  her  voice,  for  she  herself  preferred 
adorers  to  lovers, 

"But  she  hasn't  seemed  to  care  about  them,"  he 
said,  "I  believe  she  has  grown  tired  of  flirting." 

"I'm  sure  she  doesn't  flirt  with  them,  and  I  think 
it's  all  because  she  is  pining  for  somebody  she  left  at 
Old  Church  —  the  miller  or  the  rector  or  somebody 
we've  never  even  heard  of." 

"What's  that?"  he  started  a  little,  and  she  saw  at 
once  that,  although  she  had  used  her  most  delicate 
weapon,  he  had  flinched  from  the  first  touch  of  the 
blade.  "  I'm  positive  she  hadn't  a  real  fancy  for 
anybody  down  there,"  he  added,  as  he  relapsed  into 
his  attitude  of  indifference. 

"I  know  she  says  so,  Jonathan,  but  there  are 
other  ways  of  telling." 


328  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

"Oh,  there's  no  truth  in  that  —  it's  all  nonsense," 
he  said  irritably. 

Then  a  door  creaked  in  the  hall,  there  was  a  rustle 
of  silken  skirts  on  the  carpet,  and  Molly,  having  dried 
her  tears,  came  in,  pliant,  blushing,  and  eager  to  please 
them  both. 


CHAPTER  VI 

IN   WHICH    HEARTS   GO  ASTRAY 

SHE  was  enchantingly  pretty,  there  was  no  doubt 
of  that,  thought  Gay  as  he  watched  her  at  dinner. 
He  had  rarely  seen  a  face  so  radiant  in  expression, 
and  she  had  lost,  he  noticed,  the  touch  of  provincialism 
in  her  voice  and  manner.  To-night,  for  the  first  time, 
he  felt  that  there  was  a  fawn-like  shyness  about  her, 
as  if  her  soul  had  flown  startled  before  his  ap 
proach.  Of  her  meeting  with  Abel  in  Applegate  he 
knew  nothing,  and  while  he  discerned  instinctively 
the  softness  and  the  richness  of  her  mood,  it  was  but 
reasonable  that  he  should  attribute  it  to  a  different 
and,  as  it  happened,  to  a  mistaken  cause.  He  liked 
that  faint  shadow  of  her  lashes  on  her  vivid 
cheeks,  and  while  he  drank  his  coffee  and  cracked  his 
nuts,  he  told  himself,  half  humorously,  that  the  ideal 
love,  after  all,  was  a  perpetual  virgin  in  perpetual 
flight.  As  he  rose  from  the  table,  he  remembered 
Blossom,  and  the  pile  of  her  half-read  letters  in  his 
travelling  bag.  "She's  a  dear  good  girl,  and  just 
because  I've  got  myself  into  a  mess,  I've  no  idea  of 
behaving  like  a  cad  to  her,"  he  thought. 

That  was  downstairs  in  the  hotel  dining-room,  and 
an  hour  later,  when  he  faced  Molly  alone  in  the  little 
sitting-room,  he  repeated  the  phrase  to  himself  with 
an  additional  emphasis  —  for  when  the  woman  before 
him  in  flesh  and  blood  looked  up  at  him  with  entreat- 

329 


330  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

ing  eyes,  like  a  child  begging  a  favour,  the  woman  in 
his  memory  faded  quickly  into  remoteness. 

"What's  the  matter,  little  girl?"  he  asked. 

"Oh,  Jonathan,  I  must  go  back  to  Old  Church  — 
to-morrow!"  she  said. 

"Why  in  thunder  do  you  want  to  do  that?" 

"There's  something  I  must  see  about.  I  can't 
wait.  I  never  can  wait  when  I  want  anything. " 

"So  I  have  observed.  This  something  is  so  impor 
tant,  by  the  way,  that  you  haven't  thought  of  it  for 
six  months?" 

"Well,  I've  thought  of  it  —  sometimes,"  she  ad 
mitted. 

"  Can't  you  tell  me  what  it  is,  Molly?  " 

She  shook  her  head.  Her  face  was  pink  and  her 
eyes  shone;  whatever  it  was,  it  had  obviously  enriched 
her  beauty. 

"Tell  me,  little  girl,"  he  repeated  and  leaned  closer. 
There  had  always  been  something  comfortable  and 
warm  in  his  nearness  to  her,  and  under  the  influence 
of  it,  she  felt  tempted  to  cry  out,  "I  want  to  go  back 
to 'find  out  if  Abel  still  loves  me!  I  am  an  idiot,  I 
know,  but  I  feel  that  I  shall  die  if  I  discover  that  he 
has  got  over  caring.  This  suspense  is  more  than  I 
can  bear,  yet  I  never  knew  until  I  felt  it,  how  much 
he  means  to  me. " 

This  was  what  she  wanted  to  say,  but  instead  of 
uttering  it,  she  merely  murmured : 

"I  can't,  Jonathan,  you  would  never  understand." 
Her  whole  being  wTas  vibrant  to-night  with  the  desire 
for  love,  yet,  in  spite  of  his  wide  experience  with  the 
passion,  she  knew  that  he  would  not  comprehend  what 
she  meant  by  the  word.  It  wasn't  his  kind  of  love 


HEARTS  GO  ASTRAY  331 

in  the  least  that  she  wanted;  it  differed  from  his  as 
the  light  of  the  sun  differs  from  the  blaze  of  a  prairie 
fire.  "It's  just  a  feeling,"  she  added,  helplessly. 
"You  don't  have  feelings,  I  suppose?" 

"Don't  I?"  he  echoed.  "Oh,  Molly,  if  you  only 
knew  how  many!" 

"But  they  don't  bother  you  —  they  don't  keep 
you  awake  at  night?" 

"While  they  last  —  but  they  don't  last,  you  know, 
they  have  their  seasons.  That's  the  curse  of  them, 
or  the  charm.  If  they  only  lasted  earth  would  be 
paradise  or  hell,  wouldn't  it?" 

But  generalizations  had  no  further  attraction  for 
her.  Her  mind  was  one  great  wonder,  and  she  felt 
that  she  could  hardly  keep  alive  until  she  could 
stand  face  to  face  with  Abel  and  read  the  truth  in  his 
eyes. 

"All  the  same  I  want  to  go,"  she  repeated  obsti 
nately. 

Suspicion  seized  him,  and  his  mouth  grew  a  little 
hard  under  his  short  moustache. 

"Molly,"  he  asked,  "have  you  been  thinking  again 
about  the  miller?" 

"How  absurd!  What  put  that  into  your  head?" 
she  retorted  indignantly. 

The  idea,  innocent  as  it  was,  appeared  to  incense 
her.  What  a  little  firebrand  she  looked,  and  how  hot 
her  eyes  glowed  when  she  was  angry ! 

"Well,  I'm  glad  you  haven't  —  because,  you  know, 
really  it  wouldn't  do,"  he  answered. 

"What  wouldn't  do?" 

"Your  marrying  a  Revercomb  —  it  wouldn't  do 
in  the  least." 


332  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

"Why  wouldn't  it?" 

"You  can  see  that  for  yourself,  can't  you?  You've 
come  entirely  out  of  that  life  and  you  couldn't  go  back 
to  it." 

"I  don't  see  why  I  couldn't  if  I  wanted  to?"  she 
threw  out  at  him  with  sudden  violence. 

Clearly,  as  his  mother  had  said,  she  was  lacking  in 
reverence,  yet  he  couldn't  agree  that  she  would 
never  become  exactly  a  lady.  Not  with  that  high 
bred  poise  of  the  head  and  those  small,  exquisite 
hands ! 

"Well,  in  the  first  place,  I  don't  believe  you'd  ever 
want  to,"  he  said  calmly,  "and  in  the  second  place, 
if  you  ever  did  such  a  thing,  my  little  weather-vane, 
you'd  regret  it  in  ten  minutes." 

"If  I  did  it,  I  don't  believe  I'd  ever  regret  it,"  was 
her  amazing  rejoinder. 

Stupefied  yet  dauntless,  he  returned  to  the  charge. 

"You're  talking  sheer  nonsense,  you  silly  girl,  and 
you  know  it,"  he  said.  "If  you  were  to  go  back  to 
Old  Church  to  marry  the  miller,  you'd  be  sorry  before 
you  got  up  to  the  altar." 

"I'm  not  going  back  there  to  marry  him,"  she  per 
sisted  stubbornly,  "but  I  don't  believe  if  I  were  to 
do  it,  I'd  ever  regret  it. 

"You  think  you'd  be  satisfied  to  give  up  ten  thou 
sand  dollars  a  year  and  settle  down  to  raising  chickens 
for  a  living?" 

"I  like  raising  chickens." 

"And  you'd  expect  that  pursuit  to  make  up  to  you 
for  all  you  would  sacrifice  —  for  the  world  and  people 
and  freedom  to  go  and  come  as  you  please?" 

"I  don't  care  about  the  world, "  she  replied,  sticking, 


HEARTS  GO  ASTRAY  3S3 

he  told  himself,  as  obstinately  as  a  mule  to  her  point, 
"and  people  seem  to  me  just  the  same  everywhere." 

"The  same?"  he  repeated,  "do  you  actually  mean 
that  you  can't  see  any  difference?" 

"No  difference  that  matters.  It's  all  in  the  clothes 
and  the  sillier  things  they  talk  about.  Why,  I'd 
rather  hear  old  Adam  Doolittle  talk  than  that  stupid 
Judge  Grayson,  who  dined  with  us  the  other  night, 
and  never  mentioned  anything  but  stocks.  If  I've 
got  to  hear  about  a  single  subject  I'd  rather  it  would 
be  crops  than  stocks  —  they  seem  more  human, 
somehow." 

"By  Jove!"  he  exclaimed,  under  his  breath,  "what's 
got  into  you  to-night,  Molly?  I  honestly  believe 
you've  begun  to  idealize  the  miller  now  you've  been 
so  long  away  from  him.  He's  a  handsome  fellow;  you 
don't  see  his  physical  match  in  a  day,  I'm  willing  to 
admit,  but  if  you  went  back  again  you'd  be  sur 
prised  to  find  how  —  well,  how  rustic  he  would  appear 
to  you." 

The  colour  rushed  to  her  face,  and  her  eyes  burned 
hot  under  the  sudden  droop  of  her  lashes. 

"He's  better  than  any  one  I've  seen  anywhere," 
she  replied,  "he's  bigger,  he's  stronger,  he's  kinder. 
I'm  not  good  enough  to  marry  him,  and  I  know  it." 

For  an  instant  he  looked  at  her  in  the  pained  surprise 
of  one  who  had  never  indulged  in  verbal  excesses. 
Then  he  said,  coldly;  "So  you're  working  yourself 
into  a  sentiment  over  young  Revercomb.  My  dear* 
child,  if  you  only  knew  how  unspeakably  silly  it  is. 
Nothing  could  be  more  absurd  than  to  throw  away 
an  income  of  ten  thousand  dollars  a  year  in  order  to 
marry  a  poor  man."  The  idea  of  her  committing 


334  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

such  folly  was  intensely  distressing  to  him.  His 
judgment  was  now  in  the  ascendant,  and  like  most 
men,  while  under  the  cool  and  firm  control  of  the 
rational  part  of  his  nature,  he  was  incapable  of  recalling 
with  any  sympathy  the  times  when  he  had  followed 
the  lead  of  those  qualities  which  rise  superior  to  reason. 

"I  don't  care  how  poor  he  is,"  said  Molly  passion 
ately,  for  her  rational  part  was  plainly  not  in  the  as 
cendant.  "Nobody  ever  thought  about  his  being 
so  poor  until  your  uncle  left  me  all  that  horrid  money. 
He  was  honestly  born  and  I  wasn't,  yet  he  didn't 
care.  He  was  big  and  splendid  and  I  was  little  and 
mean,  that  was  the  matter!" 

"By  George,  you're  in  love  with  him!"  he  exclaimed, 
and  beneath  the  coldness  of  his  manner,  his  heart 
suffered  an  incomprehensible  pang.  Undoubtedly 
he  had  permitted  himself  to  drift  into  a  feeling  for 
Molly,  which,  had  he  been  wise,  he  would  have  stran 
gled  speedily  in  the  beginning.  The  obstacles  which 
had  appeared  to  make  for  his  safety,  had,  he  realized 
now,  merely  afforded  shelter  to  the  flame  until  it  had 
grown  strong  enough  to  overleap  them.  While  he 
stood  there,  with  his  angry  gaze  on  her  flushing  and 
paling  beauty,  he  had  the  helpless  sensation  of  a  man 
who  returns  at  sunrise  to  find  a  forest  fire  raging  where 
he  had  left  a  few  sticks  smouldering  at  midnight. 

"I'm  not  in  love  with  anybody  —  you've  no  right 
to  say  so,"  she  returned,  "but  I'll  not  have  him  abused. 
It's  not  true,  it's  not  just,  it's  not  generous." 

This  was  too  much  for  his  forbearance,  though  he 
told  himself  that,  after  all,  there  was  no  "getting  at" 
Molly  from  the  surface,  and  that  this  outburst 
might  conceal  a  fancy  for  himself  quite  as  well  as 


HEARTS  GO  ASTRAY  335 

for  the  miller.  The  last  idea,  while  it  tantalized  him, 
was  not  without  a  pleasant  sting  for  his  senses. 

"You're  a  goose,  Molly,  and  I've  half  a  mind  to 
shake  you  soundly,"  he  said.  "Since  there's  no  other 
way  to  cure  you  of  this  foolish  infatuation,  I'll  take 
you  down  to  Old  Church  to-morrow  and  let  you  see 
with  your  own  eyes.  Yrou've  forgotten  how  things 
look  there,  that's  my  opinion." 

"Oh,  Jonathan,"  she  said,  and  grew  dangerously 
sweet,  while  all  her  soft  flushing  body  leaned  toward 
him.  "Y'ou  are  a  perfect  dear,  aren't  you?" 

"I  rather  think  I  am,  since  you  put  the  question. 
Molly,  will  you  kiss  me?" 

She  drew  back  at  once,  a  little  deprecating,  because 
she  was  honestly  sorry,  since  he  was  so  silly  as  to  want 
to  kiss  her,  that  she  couldn't  oblige  him.  For  her 
own  part,  she  felt,  she  wouldn't  have  cared,  but  she 
remembered  Abel's  anger  because  of  the  kiss  by  the 
brook,  and  the  thought  hardened  her  heart.  It  was 
foolish  of  men  to  make  so  much  importance  of  kisses. 

"I'm  sorry,  but  I  can't.  Don't  ask  me,  Jonathan 
—  all  the  same  you  are  a  darling!" 

Then  before  he  could  detain  her,  she  had  slipped 
away  from  him  through  Kesiah's  door,  which  she 
closed  after  her. 

"Aunt  Kesiah,"  he  heard  her  exclaim  joyously, 
"Jonathan  is  going  to  take  me  to  Old  Church  to  spend 
to-morrow!" 

Kesiah,  in  an  ugly  grey  dressing-gown,  tied  at  the 
waist  with  a  black  cord,  was  drying  Mrs.  Gay's  sheets 
before  the  radiator.  At  Molly's  entrance,  she  turned, 
and  said  warningly,  "Patsey  is  rubbing  Angela  after 
her  bath.  What  was  that  about  Old  Church,  dear?" 


336  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

"Jonathan  has  promised  to  take  me  down  there 
to-morrow/' 

"To  spend  the  day?  Well,  I  suppose  we  may 
trust  you  with  him."  From  her  manner  one  might 
have  inferred  that  the  idea  of  not  trusting  anybody 
with  Jonathan  would  have  been  a  joke. 

She  went  on  calmly  shaking  out  Mrs.  Gay's  sheets 
before  the  radiator,  as  if  the  conversation  were  over, 
while  behind  her  on  the  pale  green  wall,  her  shadow 
loomed  distinct,  grotesque,  and  sexless.  But  Molly 
was  in  the  mood  when  the  need  to  talk  —  to  let  one 
self  go  —  is  so  great  that  the  choice  of  a  listener  is 
little  more  than  an  accident.  She  had  discovered 
at  last  —  discovered  in  that  illuminating  moment  in 
Applegate — the  meaning  of  the  homesickness,  of  the 
restlessness,  of  the  despondency  of  the  last  few  months. 
Before  she  could  understand  what  Abel  had  meant 
to  her,  she  had  been  obliged  to  draw  away  from  him, 
to  measure  him  from  a  distance,  to  put  the  lucid 
revealing  silence  between  them.  It  was  like  looking 
at  a  mountain,  when  one  must  fall  back  to  the  right 
angle  of  view,  must  gain  the  proper  perspective, 
before  one  can  judge  of  the  space  it  fills  on  the  horizon. 
What  she  needed  was  merely  to  see  Abel  in  relation 
to  other  things  in  her  life,  to  learn  how  immeasurably 
he  towered  above  them.  Her  blood  rushed  through 
her  veins  with  a  burning  sweetness,  and  while  she  stood 
there  watching  Kesiah,  the  wonder  and  the  intoxica 
tion  of  magic  was  upon  her.  She  had  passed  within 
the  Enchanter's  circle,  and  her  soul  was  dancing  to 
the  music  of  flutes. 

"Aunt  Kesiah,"  she  asked  suddenly, "and  her  voice 
thrilled,  "were  you  ever  in  love?" 


HEARTS  GO  ASTRAY  337 

Kesiah  looked  up  from  the  sheets  with  the  expres 
sion  of  a  person  who  has  been  interrupted  in  the  serious 
business  of  life  by  the  flutterings  of  a  humming-bird. 
It  required  an  effort  for  her  to  recede  from  the  com 
fortable  habit  of  thought  she  had  attained  to  the  point 
of  view  from  which  the  aspirations  of  the  soul  had 
appeared  of  more  importance  than  the  satisfactions 
of  the  body.  Only  for  a  few  weeks  in  the  spring  did 
she  relapse  periodically  into  such  a  condition  of  mind. 

"Never,"  she  answered. 

"Did  you  never  feel  that  you  cared  about  anybody 
—  in  that  way?" 

"Never." 

"You  didn't  have  the  least  bit  of  a  romance  when 
you  were  young?" 

"Never." 

f  It  was  incredible !  It  was  appalling !  But  it  really 
had  happened!  Love,  which  filled  the  world,  was 
not  the  beginning  and  the  end,  as  it  ought  to  be,  of 
every  mortal  existence.  Subtract  it  from  the  universe 
and  there  was  nothing  left  but  a  void,  yet  in  this 
void,  life  seemed  to  move  and  feed  and  have  its  being 
just  as  if  it  were  really  alive.  People  indeed  —  even 
women  —  could  go  on,  like  Kesiah,  for  almost  sixty 
years,  and  not  share,  for  an  instant,  the  divine 
impulse  of  creation.  They  could  exist  quite  comfort 
ably  on  three  meals  a  day  without  ever  suspecting 
the  terrible  emptiness  that  there  was  inside  of  them. 
They  could  even  wring  a  stale  satisfaction  out  of  this 
imitation  existence  —  this  play  of  make-believe  being 
alive.  And  around  them  all  the  time  there  was  the 
wonder  and  the  glory  of  the  universe ! 

Then  Kesiah  turned  suddenly  from  the  radiator, 


338  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

and  there  was  an  expression  in  her  face  which  reminded 
Molly  of  the  old  lady  with  the  bonnet  trimmed  with 
artificial  purple  wistaria  she  had  seen  on  the  train  - 
an  expression  of  useless  knowledge  and  regret,  as 
though  she  realized  that  she  had  missed  the  essential 
thing  and  that  it  was  life,  after  all,  that  had  been  to 
blame  for  it.  For  a  minute  only  the  look  lasted,  for 
Kesiah's  was  a  closed  soul,  and  the  smallest  revelation 
of  herself  was  like  the  agony  of  travail. 

"If  you  don't  mind,  dear,  will  you  carry  these  sheets 
to  Patsey  for  Angela's  bed,"  she  said. 

At  the  time  Gay  had  been  only  half  in  earnest  when 
lie  promised  to  take  Molly  to  Old  Church,  and  he 
presented  himself  at  breakfast  next  morning  with  the 
unspoken  hope  in  his  heart  that  she  had  changed  her 
mind  during  the  night.  When  she  met  him  with  her 
hat  on,  he  inquired  facetiously  if  she  contemplated  a 
journey,  and  proceeded  to  make  light  of  her  response 
that  the  carriage  was  ordered  to  take  them  to  the  sta 
tion. 

"But  we'll  starve  if  we  go  there,"  he  urged,  "the 
servants  are  scattered,  and  the  luncheon  I  got  last 
time  was  a  subject  for  bad  language." 

"I'll  cook  you  one,  Jonathan.  I  can  cook  beau 
tifully,"  she  said. 

The  idea  amused  him.  After  all  they  could  easily 
get  back  to  dinner. 

"I  wonder  if  you  know  that  you  are  a  nuisance, 
Molly?"  he  asked,  smiling,  and  she  saw  that  she  had 
won.  Winning  was  just  as  easy  with  Jonathan  as 
it  had  been  with  Reuben  or  with  Abel. 

It  was  a  brilliant  day,  in  the  midst  of  a  brief  spell 
of  Indian  summer.  When  they  left  the  train  and  drove 


HEARTS  GO  ASTRAY  339- 

along  the  corduroy  road  from  Applegate,  the  forest  on 
either  side  of  them  was  gorgeous  in  gold  and  copper. 
Straight  ahead,  at  the  end  of  the  long  vista,  they  could 
see  a  bit  of  cloudless  sky  beyond  the  low  outlines  of 
a  field;  and  both  sky  and  field  were  wrapped  in  a  faint 
purplish  haze.  The  few  belated  yellow  butterflies, 
floating  over  the  moist  places  in  the  road,  seemed  to 
drift  pensively  in  the  autumnal  stillness. 

On  the  long  drive  hardly  a  word  was  spoken,  for 
Gay  was  occupied  with  the  cigar  he  had  not  had  time 
to  smoke  after  breakfast,  and  Molly  was  thinking 
that  but  for  Reuben's  death,  she  would  never  have 
accepted  Mr.  Jonathan's  legacy  and  parted  from  Abel. 

"All  this  has  happened  because  I  went  along  the 
Haunt's  Walk  and  not  across  the  east  meadow  that 
April  afternoon,"  she  thought,  "but  for  that,  Jon 
athan  would  not  have  kissed  me  and  Abel  and  I  should 
not  have  quarrelled."  It  was  such  a  little  thing  — 
only  the  eighth  of  a  mile  which  had  decided  her  future. 
She  might  just  as  easily  have  turned  aside  if  she  had 
only  suspected.  But  life  was  like  that  —  you  never 
suspected  until  things  had  happened,  and  the  little 
decisions,  made  in  the  midst  of  your  ignorance,  com 
mitted  you  to  your  destiny. 

The  horses  came  out  of  the  wood,  plodding  over 
the  sandy  soil,  which  marked  the  beginning  of  the  open 
country.  Across  the  fields  toward  Bottom's  Ordinary, 
scattered  groups  of  people  were  walking  in  twos  and 
threes,  showing  like  disfiguring  patches  in  the  midst 
of  the  golden  rod  and  the  life-everlasting.  Old  Adam, 
hobbling  up  the  path,  while  the  horses  stopped  to 
drink  at  the  well,  touched  his  hat  as  he  steadied  him 
self  with  the  aid  of  his  big  knotted  stick. 


340  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

"It's  a  fine  sight  to  see  you  back  among  us,"  he 
said.  "If  you'd  come  a  couple  of  hours  earlier  you'd 
have  been  in  time  for  the  wedding." 

"What  wedding?"  asked  Gay  in  a  clear  voice,  but 
moved  by  some  intuitive  knowledge  of  what  the  an 
swer  would  be,  he  did  not  look  at  Molly. 

"Why,  Solomon  Hatch's  daughter,  Judy,  to  be  sure. 
She's  jest  married  the  miller."  For  a  minute  he 
stopped,  coughed,  spat  and  then  added:  "Mr.  Mullen 
tied  'em  up  tight  all  by  heart,  without  so  much  as 
glancin'  at  the  book.  Ah,  that  young  parson 
may  have  his  faults,  an'  be  unsound  on  the  doctrine 
of  baptism,  but  he  can  lay  on  matrimony  with  as 
pious  an  air  as  if  he  was  conductin'  a  funeral." 

He  fell  back  as  Gay  nodded  pleasantly,  and  the 
wheels  grated  over  the  rocky  ground  by  the  well. 
With  a  slow  flick  of  the  long  whip,  the  carriage  crossed 
the  three  roads  and  rolled  rapidly  into  the  turnpike. 
And  while  she  gazed  straight  ahead  into  the  flat 
distance,  Molly  was  thinking,  "All  this  has  happened 
because  I  went  down  the  Haunt's  Walk  that  April 
afternoon  and  not  over  the  east  meadow." 


CHAPTER  VH 

A   NEW    BEGINNING   TO   AN   OLD   TRAGEDY 

THE  wedding  was  over.  Mr.  Mullen  had  read  the 
service  in  his  melodious  "voice,  gazing  straight  over 
the  Prayer-book  as  though  he  saw  a  yision  in  the  sun 
beam  above  Judy's  head.  On  that  solitary  occasion 
his  soul,  which  revolted  from  what  he  described  in 
secret  as  the  "  Methodistical  low  church  atmosphere" 
of  his  parish,  had  adorned  the  simple  words  with  the 
facial  solemnity  that  accompanies  an  elaborate  ritual. 

From  the  front  pew,  Sarah  Revercomb,  in  full  widow's 
weeds,  had  glared  stonily  at  the  Reverend  Orlando,  as 
if  she  suspected  him  of  some  sinister  intention  to 
tamper  with  the  ceremony.  At  her  side,  Solomon 
Hatch's  little  pointed  beard  might  have  been  seen 
rising  and  falling  as  it  followed  .the  rhythmic  sound  of 
the  clergyman's  voice.  When  the  service  was  over, 
and  the  congregation  filed  out  into  the  leaf-strewn 
paths  of  the  churchyard,  it  was  generally  decided  that 
Mr.  Mullen's  delivery  had  never  been  surpassed  in 
the  memory  of  the  several  denominations. 

"'Twas  when  he  came  to  makin'  Abel  say  'with  all 
my  worldly  goods'  that  he  looked  his  grandest," 
commented  old  Adam,  as  he  started  for  Solomon's 
cottage  between  Sarah  and  Mrs.  Hatch.  "But,  them 
are  solemn  words  an'  he  was  wise  to  give  a  man  pause 
for  thought.  Thar  ain't  a  mo'  inspirin'  sentence  in 
the  whole  Prayer-book  than  that./' 

341 


342  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

"Well,  marriage  ain't  all  promisin', "  observed  Sarah, 
"thar's  a  deal  to  it  besides,  an'  they're  both  likely  to 
find  it  out  befo'  they're  much  older." 

Old  Adam,  who  never  contradicted  a  woman  unless 
he  was  married  to  her,  agreed  to  this  with  some  unin 
telligible  mutterings  through  his  toothless  gums, 
while  Mrs.  Hatch  remarked  with  effusive  amiability 
that  "it's  a  sad  sight  to  see  a  daughter  go,  even 
though  she's  a  stepchild.  It's  a  comfort  to  think," 
she  added  immediately,  "that  Judy's  got  a  God- 
fearin',  pious  husband  an'  one  with  no  nonsense  about 
him  for  all  his  good  looks." 

"I  ain't  so  sure  about  the  nonsense,"  retorted  Sarah, 
"Abel's  got  to  be  managed  like  all  men  folk,  an'  he 
ain't  so  different  from  the  rest  of  'em,  unless  it  is  that 
he's  mo'  set." 

She  harboured  a  carefully  concealed  opinion  that 
Abel  was  "stooping"  to  marry  Judy,  for  the  Hatches 
were  particularly  thriftless  and  had  never  succeeded 
in  paying  a  long  standing  mortgage.  Besides,  they 
were  in  the  habit  of  using  their  parlour  commonly 
on  week  days,  and  Mrs.  Hatch  had  once  been  seen  at 
church  in  a  calico  dress  —  though,  it  was  true,  she 
had  slipped  out  of  the  side  door  before  the  service  was 
over.  Added  to  these  things,  Sarah  had  observed 
of  late  that  Judy  showed  an  inclination  to  shirk  her 
duties,  and  had  a  dangerous  habit  of  "mooning"  while 
she  was  at  the  wash  tub. 

"Well,  I  like  a  man  that's  set,  myself,"  rejoined 
Mrs.  Hatch,  as  effusive  as  ever.  "I  used  to  say  thar 
never  was  anybody  so  set  as  my  first  husband  till 
I  got  my  second." 

"I  ain't  had  so  wide  an  experience  as  you,"  replied 


NEW  BEGINNING  TO  AN  OLD  TRAGEDY   343 

Sarah,  as  if  she  were  condescending  to  an  acknowledged 
lapse  in  virtue.  "  Thar's  a  difference  between  marryin' 
for  the  sake  of  matrimony,  which  is  right  an'  proper 
accordin'  to  Scripture,  an'  marryin'  for  the  sake  of  a 
man,  which  is  a  sign  of  weakness  in  a  woman." 

"You  ain't  a  friend  to  the  feelin's  of  natur,  ma'am," 
remarked  old  Adam,  with  respect. 

"No,  thar  never  was  much  natur  in  me,"  responded 
Sarah,  lifting  her  bombazine  skirt  with  both  hands 
as  she  stepped  over  a  puddle.  Her  floating  crape  veil, 
bought  ten  years  after  her  husband's  death,  with  the 
money  made  from  her  turkeys,  represented  the  single 
extravagance  as  well  as  the  solitary  ambition  of  her 
life.  Even  as  a  child  she  had  longed  ardently  to  wear 
crape,  and  this  secret  aspiration,  which  had  smouldered 
in  the  early  poverty-stricken  years  of  her  marriage, 
had  burst  suddenly  into  flame  when  she  found  herself 
a  widow.  During  the  burial  service  over  her  husband, 
while  she  had  sat  bowed  in  musty  black  cotton, 
which  had  been  loaned  her  by  a  neighbour,  she  had 
vowed  earnestly  that  she  would  wear  weeds  yet  for 
Abner  before  she  died.  Ten  years  of  scraping  and 
saving  were  devoted  to  this  sacred  resolve,  and  now, 
twenty  years  after  the  death  of  Abner  Revercomb, 
she  was  wearing  a  crape  veil  for  him  to  his  son's  wed 
ding.  As  she  walked,  so  strong  a  smell  of  camphor 
floated  from  her  garments,  that  old  Adam  sneezed 
twice,  and  then  muttered  hurriedly  that  "'twas  the 
very  season  for  chills."  Something  of  her  secret 
pride  in  her  garb  of  mourning  had  entered  into  him 
while  he  limped  beside  her  on  his  rheumatic  old  legs. 

Instead  of  stopping  with  the  others  for  the, wedding 
feast  at  Solomon's  cottage,  Sarah  pleaded  a  sudden 


344  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

palpitation  of  the  heart,  and  hurried  home  to  put  the 
house  in  order  before  the  arrival  of  the  bride.  Already 
she  had  prepared  the  best  chamber  and  set  the  supper 
table  with  her  blue  and  white  china,  but  as  she 
walked  quietly  home  from  church  at  the  side  of  old 
Adam,  she  had  remembered,  with  a  sensation  of  panic, 
that  she  had  forgotten  to  make  up  the  feather  bed, 
which  she  rolled  over  for  an  airing.  Not  a  speck  of 
dust  was  left  on  the  floor  or  windows,  and  a  little  later, 
while  she  began  spreading  the  sheets,  without  waiting 
to  remove  her  bonnet,  she  thought  proudly  that  Judy 
had  probably  never  stayed  in  so  entirely  respectable 
a  chamber  in  her  life.  Even  the  pitcher  and  basin 
were  elaborately  ornamented  with  peonies,  the  colour 
of  the  sampler  in  crewel  work  over  the  washstand; 
and  on  the  bureau,  between  two  crochetted  mats  of 
an  intricate  pattern,  there  was  a  pincushion  in  the 
shape  of  a  monstrous  tomato. 

Yes,  it  was  all  ready  for  them,  she  reflected,  while 
she  stood  in  the  doorway  and  surveyed  the  results  of 
her  handiwork.  "Thar's  something  wantin',"  she 
observed  presently  to  herself.  "I  never  could  feel 
that  a  weddin'  or  a  funeral  was  finished  without  a 
calla  lily  somewhere  around."  Going  downstairs 
to  the  kitchen,  she  clipped  the  last  forced  blossoms 
of  an  unusual  size  from  her  "prize"  plant,  and  brought 
them  back  in  a  small  glass  vase  to  decorate  Judy's 
bureau.  "Now  it's  just  like  it  was  when  I  was  married," 
she  thought,  "an'  it's  just  as  it  will  be  when  Abel's 
sons  are  bringin'  home  their  brides."  There  was  no 
sentiment  in  her  thoughts,  for  she  regarded  sentiment 
as  a  mere  morbid  stimulant  to  the  kind  of  emotion 
she  considered  both  dangerous  and  useless.  Even 


NEW  BEGINNING  TO  AN  OLD  TRAGEDY   345 

the  look  on  Abel's  face,  which  she  had  been  forced 
to  recognize  as  that  of  despair,  seemed  to  her,  on  the 
whole,  a  safer  expression  than  one  of  a  too-exultant 
joy.  She  was  not  afraid  of  despair  —  its  manifestations 
were  familiar  to  her,  and  she  had  usually  found  them 
amenable  to  the  laws  of  propriety.  But  she  felt 
vaguely  that  happiness  in  some  mysterious  way  was 
related  to  sin,  and  the  shameless  ecstasy  with  which 
Abel  had  announced  his  engagement  to  Molly  had 
branded  his  emotion  as  positively  immoral  in  her 
sight.  "No  decent  feelin'  is  goin'  to  make  any 
body's  face  shine  like  a  brass  plate,"  she  had  said 
to  herself. 

After  straightening  the  crochetted  mats  for  tlie  last 
time,  she  went  downstairs  to  the  kitchen  to  describe 
the  wedding  to  the  two  old  people,  who,  chained  to 
their  chairs  by  rheumatism,  were  on  the  point  of  burst 
ing  with  curiosity. 

"An'  you  didn't  bring  me  so  much  as  a  bite  of  cake," 
whimpered  grandmother,  seeing  her  empty  hands. 
"Here  I've  been  settin'  all  day  in  this  cheer  with  my 
mouth  waterin'  for  that  weddin'  cake." 

"I'm  just  as  sure  as  I  can  be  that  Mrs.  Hatch  is 
goin'  to  send  you  some  by  Blossom,"  replied  Sarah 
soothingly. 

"Ah,  to  think  of  Abel  bein'  at  his  own  weddin'  an' 
we  settin'  here,"  piped  grandfather.  "'Twas  a  hasty 
business,  but  we  Revercombs  were  al'ays  the  folk  to 
swallow  our  puddin'  while  'twas  smokin'  an'  then  cry 
out  that  we  didn't  know  'twas  hot.  I  never  knew 
one  of  us  that  didn't  have  to  larn  he  was  a  fool  befo' 
he  could  come  at  any  wisdom." 

"Well,  I  ain't  got  anything  particular  against  the 


346  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

girl,"  said  Sarah,  "but  it's  my  bounden  belief  that 
she'll  turn  out  a  slattern.  Thar's  something  moon 
struck  about  her  —  you  can  tell  it  by  that  shiftin', 
skeered-rabbit  look  in  her  eyes.  She's  just  the  sort 
to  sweep  all  the  trash  under  the  bed  an'  think  she's 
cleaned  up  a  room." 

"It's  amazin',  the  small  sense  men  have  in  sech 
matters,"  remarked  grandfather.  "Thar's  a  feelin' 
among  us,  I  don't  know  whar  it  comes  from,  that  the 
little  and  squinched-up  women  generally  run  to  virtue." 

"Oh,  I  ain't  sayin'  she's  not  a  good  girl  accordin' 
to  her  lights,"  returned  Sarah,  "an',  after  all,  it  ain't  a 
man  but  his  mother  that  suffers  from  a  slattern. 
Well,  I  must  go  an'  lay  off  my  weeds  befo'  it's  time 
for  'em  to  get  here.  Don't  you  fret,  ma,  Mrs.  Hatch 
is  surely  goin'  to  send  you  something." 

Inspired  by  this  prophecy,  grandmother  began 
immediately  to  show  signs  of  reviving  hope,  and  a 
little  later,  when  the  sound  of  wheels  was  heard  on  the 
road,  she  was  seized  with  an  anticipation  so  violent 
that  she  fluttered  like  a  withered  leaf  in  the  wind. 
Then  the  wheels  stopped  at  the  gate,  and  Blossom  and 
Mr.  Mullen  entered,  bearing  a  small  basket,  which 
contained  disordered  remains  of  the  wedding  feast. 

"Whar's  Abel?"  inquired  Sarah,  bowing  stiffly  to 
the  young  clergyman. 

"We  passed  them  in  the  road.  My  horse  for  once 
outstripped  his  mare,"  replied  Mr.  Mullen,  who  felt 
a  crawling  sensation  in  the  back  of  his  neck  whenever 
Sarah  was  present,  as  if  he  were  called  upon  to 
face  in  her  single  person  an  entire  parsimonious  vestry. 
"I  had  the  pleasure  of  driving  your  granddaughter 
home,  and  now  I  must  be  going  back  to  bring  mother. 


NEW  BEGINNING  TO  AN  OLD  TRAGEDY   347 

It  was  a  delightful  occasion,  Mrs.  Revercomb,  and 
you  are  to  be  congratulated  on  the  charming  addition 
to  your  family."  He  hadn't  meant  to  use  the  word 
"charming"  —  he  had  intended  to  say  "estimable" 
instead  —  but  Sarah  embarrassed  him  by  her  expres 
sion,  and  it  slipped  out  before  he  was  aware  of  it. 
Her  manner  annoyed  him  excessively.  It  was  as 
bad  as  looking  up  suddenly  in  the  midst  of  one  of  the 
finest  paragraphs  in  his  sermon  and  meeting  a  super 
cilious  look  on  a  face  in  his  congregation. 

"Humph!"  observed  Sarah  shortly,  and  when  he 
had  gone,  she  emitted  the  sound  again,  half  to  her 
self,  half  to  her  audience,  "humph!" 

"What's  the  matter,  grandma?"  inquired  Blossom 
listlessly,  "you  don't  look  as  if  you  were  pleased." 

"Oh,  I'm  pleased,"  replied  Sarah  curtly.  "I'm 
pleased.  Did  you  notice  how  yellow  Abel  was 
lookin'  at  the  weddin'?  Wliat  he  needs  is  a  good 
dose  of  castor  oil.  I've  seen  him  like  that  befo',  an' 
I  know." 

"Oh,  grandma!  how  can  you?  who  ever  heard  of 
anybody  taking  castor  oil  on  their  wedding  day?" 

"W7ell,  thar's  a  lot  of  'em  that  would  better,"  re 
joined  Sarah  in  her  tart  manner.  The  perfection  of 
Mr.  Mullen's  behaviour  in  church  combined  with  her 
forgetfulness  to  make  up  the  feather  bed  had  destroyed 
her  day,  and  her  irritation  expressed  itself  as  usual 
in  a  moral  revolt  from  her  surroundings.  "To  think 
of  makin'  all  this  fuss  about  that  pop-eyed  Judy 
Hatch,"  she  thought,  and  a  minute  later  she  said 
aloud,  "Thar  they  are  now;  Blossom,  you  take  Judy 
upstairs  to  her  room  an'  I'll  see  after  Abel.  It  ain't 
any  use  contradictin'  me.  He's  in  for  a  bilious  spell 


348  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

just  as  sure  as  you  are  born."  She  spoke  irritably,  for 
her  anxiety  about  Abel's  liver  covered  a  deeper  dis 
quietude,  and  she  was  battling  with  all  the  obstinacy 
of  the  Hawtreys  against  the  acknowledgment  that 
the  ailment  she  was  preparing  to  dose  with  drugs  was  a 
simple  malady  of  the  soul.  In  her  moral  universe,  sin 
and  virtue  were  two  separate  entities,  as  easily  dis 
tinguished  on  the  surface  as  any  other  phenomena. 
That  a  mere  feeling,  not  produced  by  a  disordered 
liver,  could  make  a  man  wear  that  drawn  and  des 
perate  look  in  his  face,  appeared  to  her  both  unnatural 
and  reprehensible. 

But  Abel  did  not  appear,  though  Sarah  awaited  his 
entrance  with  a  bottle  in  her  hand.  As  soon  as  he 
had  turned  his  mare  out  to  pasture,  he  crossed  the 
road  to  the  mill,  and  stopping  beside  the  motionless 
wheel,  watched  the  excited  swallows  fly  back  and 
forth  overhead.  He  knew  how  a  man  felt  who  was 
given  a  life  sentence  in  prison  for  an  act  committed 
in  a  moment  of  madness.  Why  he  had  ever  asked 
Judy  to  marry  him  —  why  he  had  gone  on  calmly 
approaching  the  day  of  his  wedding  —  he  could  no 
more  explain  than  he  could  explain  the  motives  which 
impelled  him  to  the  absurdities  in  a  nightmare.  It  was 
all  a  part  of  the  terrible  and  yet  useful  perversity  of 
life  —  of  the  perversity  that  enables  a  human  being 
to  pass  from  inconsistency  to  inconsistency  without 
pausing  in  his  course  to  reflect  on  his  folly. 

In  front  of  him  was  the  vivid  green  rise  in  the  mead 
ow,  which  showed  like  a  burst  of  spring  in  the  midst 
of  the  November  landscape.  Beyond  it,  the  pines 
were  etched  in  sharp  outlines  on  the  bright  blue  sky, 
where  a  buzzard  was  sailing  slowly  in  search  of  food 


NEW  BEGINNING  TO  AN  OLD  TRAGEDY   340 

The  weather  was  so  perfect  that  the  colours  of  the 
fields  and  the  sky  borrowed  the  intense  and  unreal 
look  of  objects  seen  in  a  crystal. 

"Well,  it's  over  and  done,"  said  Abel  to  himself; 
"it's  over  and  done,  and  I'm  glad  of  it."  It  seemed  to 
him  while  he  spoke  that  it  was  his  life,  not  his  marriage, 
to  which  he  alluded  —  that  he  had  taken  the  final, 
the  irremediable  step,  and  there  was  nothing  to  come 
afterwards.  The  uncertainty  and  the  suspense  were 
at  an  end,  for  the  clanging  of  the  prison  doors  behind 
him  was  still  in  his  ears.  To-morrow  would  be  like 
yesterday,  the  next  year  would  be  like  the  last.  For 
getting  his  political  ambition,  he  told  himself  passion 
ately  that  there  was  nothing  ahead  of  him  -  -  nothing 
to  look  forward  to.  Vaguely  he  realized  that  incon 
sistent  and  irreconcilable  as  his  actions  appeared, 
they  had  been,  in  fact,  held  together  by  a  single  con 
necting  thread,  that  one  dominant  feeling  had  inspired 
all  of  his  motives.  If  he  had  never  loved  Molly,  he 
saw  clearly  now,  he  should  never  have  rushed  into  his 
marriage  with  Judy.  Pity  had  driven  him  first  in 
the  direction  of  love  —  he  remembered  the  pang 
that  had  racked  his  heart  at  the  story  of  the  forsaken 
Janet  —  and  pity  again  had  urged  him  to  the  supreme 
folly  of  -his  marriage.  All  his  life  he  had  been  led 
astray  by  this  impulse,  as  other  men  are  led  astray  by 
a  temptation  for  drink. 

"Poor  Judy,"  he  said  aloud  after  a  minute,  "she 
deserves  to  be  happy  and  I'm  going  to  try  with  all  the 
strength  that  is  in  me  to  make  her  so." 

And  then  there  rose  before  him,  as  if  it  moved  in  an 
swer  to  his  resolve,  a  memory  of  the  past  so  vivid  that 
it  seemed  to  exist  not  only  in  his  thoughts,  but  in  the 


350  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

radiant  autumn  fields  at  which  he  was  looking.  All 
the  old  passionate  sweetness,  as  sharp  as  pain,  appeared 
to  float  there  in  the  Indian  summer  before  him.  Rap 
ture  or  agony?  He  could  not  tell,  but  he  knew  that 
he  had  lost  it  forever. 

Turning  away,  he  recrossed  the  log,  and  stood  for 
a  moment,  hesitating,  with  his  hand  on  the  gate.  A 
decrepit  figure,  hobbling  with  bent  head  through  a 
golden  cloud  of  dust,  signed  to  him  to  stop,  and  while 
he  waited,  he  made  out  the  person  of  old  Adam, 
slightly  the  worse,  he  gathered,  for  the  wedding 
feast. 

"I  tarried  thar  till  the  last,  hopin'  to  have  still 
another  taste  of  toddy,"  remarked  the  aged  merry 
maker.  "  When  a  man  has  turned  ninety  he  might  as 
well  cease  to  take  thought  for  his  morals,  an'  let  the 
natchel  bent  of  'em  have  a  chance." 

It  was  plain  that  his  last  glass  had  been  too  much 
for  him,  and  that,  for  the  first  time  in  his  temperate 
career,  he  was  rapidly  approaching  a  condition  of  alco 
holic  ecstasy. 

"You'd  better  go  home  and  take  a  nap,"  said  Abel 
kindly.  "You  can't  very  well  get  lost  between  here 
and  your  house,  or  I'd  go  with  you." 

"It  warn't  the  weddin'  glass  that  was  too  much  for 
me,"  replied  the  old  man  at  the  point  of  tears,  "'twas 
the  one  I  had  arterwards  at  the  or'nary.  Not  wishin' 
to  depart  from  an  old  custom  on  account  of  a  rare 
festival,  I  stopped  at  Mrs.  Bottom's  just  as  young 
Mr.  Jonathan  an'  Reuben  Merryweather's  gal  drove 
up  from  Applegate.  Ah,  sech  a  sight  as  she  was — 
all  in  shot  silk  that  rustled  when  you  looked  at 
it an'  as  pretty  as  a  pictur." 


NEW  BEGINNING  TO  AN  OLD  TRAGEDY   351 

"So  they've  come  back?"  asked  Abel,  almost  in  a 
whisper. 

"Yes,  they've  come  back,  an'  a  sad  comin'  it  was 
for  her,  as  I  could  see  in  her  face.  'What  are  you 
wearm'  yo'  Sunday  best  for,  Mr.  Doolittle?'  asked 
Mr.  Jonathan,  spry  as  a  cricket.  'It's  a  fine  weddin' 
I've  been  to,  Mr.  Jonathan,'  I  answered,  'an'  I've 
seen  two  lovin'  hearts  beatin'  as  one  befo'  Mr.  Mullen 
at  the  altar.'  Then  Reuben  Merry  weather's  gal 
called  out  right  quickly,  'AYhose  weddin',  old  Adam?' 
an'  when  I  replied,  'Abel  Revercoinb's,'  as  I  was  bound 
to,  her  face  went  as  white  as  a  ha'nt  right  thar  befo' 
me- 

"  You'd  better  go  home  or  you  won't  be  in  any  con 
dition  to  walk  there,"  said  Abel  angrily.  "It's  down 
right  indecent  to  see  a  man  of  your  age  rocking 
about  in  the  road." 

Turning  quickly  in  his  tracks,  he  went  over  the  log 
again  and  on  to  the  loneliness  of  the  meadows  beyond. 

"And  she  went  as  white  as  a  haunt,"  he  muttered 
under  his  breath. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

A  GREAT  PASSION  IN  A  HUMBLE  PLACE 

TIME  does  not  stand  still  even  for  the  unhappily 
married.  A  man  may  have  wedded  the  wrong  woman, 
but  he  comes  down  to  his  breakfast  and  goes  about 
his  work  as  punctually  as  if  he  had  wedded  the 
right  one.  To  Abel,  with  the  thought  of  Molly  throb 
bing  like  a  fever  in  his  brain,  it  was  still  possible  to 
grind  his  grist  and  to  subtract  carefully  the  eighth  part 
as  a  toll  —  while  Judy,  hushed  in  day  dreams,  went 
on  making  butter  in  a  habit  of  absent-minded 
tranquillity.  Life  seldom  deals  in  cataclysmic  sit 
uations  —  at  least  on  the  surface.  Living  side  by 
side  in  a  married  intimacy  for  months,  Abel  and  Judy 
were  still  strangers  to  each  other.  Their  bodies  touched 
while  their  souls  were  crucified  at  an  immeasurable 
distance. 

To  Sarah,  who  embraced  Christian  theology  while 
she  practised  religiously  the  doctrine  of  the  phys 
ical  basis  of  life,  there  had  seemed  no  cause  for 
disturbance,  until  Judy  entered  the  kitchen  on  a 
stormy  evening  in  June,  and  turned  a  pair  of  in 
flamed  eyes  on  the  face  of  her  mother-in-law. 
The  young  woman  wore  her  wedding  dress,  now 
nearly  seven  months  old,  and  clasped  in  her  hand 
a  neatly  bound  Prayer  -  book  which  had  been 
the  gift  of  the  Reverend  Orlando.  For  more  than 
six  months  she  had  suffered  silently  under  Sarah's 

352 


PASSION  IN  A  HUMBLE  PLACE  253 

eyes,  which  saw  only  outward  and  visible  afflictions. 
Now,  at  the  first  sign  of  quivering  flesh,  the  older 
woman  was  at  once  on  the  alert. 

"Wharyou  goin',  Judy?"  she  inquired.  "You  ain't 
thinkin'  about  traipsin'  out  of  doors  a  night  like  this, 
are  you?" 

"Archie  promised  to  take  me  to  the  Bible  class,  an' 
he  hasn't  come  back,"  replied  Judy,  while  her  face 
worked  convulsively.  "I've  waited  for  him  since  half 
past  seven." 

"If  that  don't  beat  all!"  exclaimed  Sarah.  "Why, 
it's  thunderin'  like  Jedgment  Day.  Can't  you  hear  it?  " 

"But  I  promised  Mr.  Mullen  I  wouldn't  let  any 
thing  prevent  me,"  returned  Judy,  growing  sullen. 
"Archie  said  he'd  be  back  here  without  fail,  an'  I 
know  he's  stayed  to  supper  over  at  the  Halloweens'." 

"Isn't  it  foolish  to  wear  your  best  hat  out  in  the 
rain?"  asked  Blossom,  not  without  surprise,  for  her 
sister-in-law  had  developed  into  something  of  a  slattern. 

"I  reckon  hats  are  made  to  be  worn,"  retorted  Judy. 
As  a  rule  her  temper  was  placid  enough,  but  Archie's 
defection,  after  she  had  given  him  her  best  neck-tie 
for  the  purpose  of  binding  him  to  his  promise,  had 
overstrained  the  tension  of  her  nerves.  "Where's 
Abner?  He  used  to  go  regular." 

"He's  gone  upstairs  so  tired  that  he  can  barely 
hist  his  foot,"  replied  Sarah.  "You'd  better  let  that 
Bible  class  alone  this  evening,  Judy.  Yo'  salvation 
ain't  dependin'  on  it,  I  reckon." 

But  in  Judy's  colourless  body  there  dwelt,  unknown 
to  Nature,  which  has  no  sense  of  the  ridiculous,  the  soul 
of  a  Cleopatra.  At  the  moment  she  would  cheer 
fully  have  died  of  an  asp  sooner  than  relinquish  the 


354  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

study  of  Exodus  under  the  eyes  of  the  rector.  In 
the  arid  stretch  of  her  existence  a  great  passion  had 
flamed,  and  like  most  great  passions,  it  was  ruthless, 
destroying,  and  utterly  selfish.  She  had  made  butter 
all  day  with  the  hope  of  that  Bible  class  in  her  mind, 
and  she  was  determined  that,  whatever  it  cost  the 
Revercombs,  she  should  have  her  reward  this  evening 
in  the  commendation  of  the  young  clergyman.  That 
mere  thunder  and  lightning  should  keep  her  from  his 
side  appeared  to  her  little  less  than  absurd.  She  knew 
that  he  had  received  a  call  within  the  week,  and  she 
would  have  walked  unshod  over  burning  plough 
shares  in  order  to  hear  him  say  that  he  had  declined  it. 

"I've  got  to  go,"  she  insisted  stubbornly.  "If 
there  isn't  anybody  to  go  with  me,  I'll  go  alone." 

"Why,  if  you're  so  bent  on  it  I'll  take  you  myself," 
said  Abel,  looking  up  from  the  barrel  of  his  gun,  which 
he  was  cleaning.  His  manner  to  Judy  was  invariably 
kind  and  even  solicitous,  to  a  degree  which  caused 
Sarah  to  tell  herself  at  times  that  "it  wasn't  natural 
an'  wasn't  goin'  to  last."  As  long  as  men  would  be 
have  themselves  quietly,  and  go  about  their  business 
with  the  unfailing  regularity  of  the  orthodox,  she 
preferred,  on  the  whole,  that  they  should  avoid  any 
unusual  demonstration  of  virtue.  An  extreme  of 
conduct  whether  good  or  bad  made  her  uneasy. 
She  didn't  like,  as  she  put  it  in  her  own  mind,  "any 
thing  out  of  the  way."  Once  when  Abel,  nettled  by 
some  whim  of  Judy's,  had  retorted  with  a  slight  show 
of  annoyance,  his  mother  had  experienced  a  positive 
sensation  of  relief,  while  she  said  to  herself  with  a 
kind  of  triumph  that  "the  old  Adam  was  thar  still." 

"You've   got   that   hackin'   cough,   Abel,   an'   you 


PASSION  IN  A  HUMBLE  PLACE  355 

oughtn't  to  go  out  in  this  storm,"  remarked  Sarah,  with 
an  uneasiness  she  could  not  conceal. 

"Oh,  it  won't  hurt  me.  I'm  a  pine  knot.  Are  you 
ready,  Judy?" 

"It's  such  a  little  way,"  said  Judy,  still  sullen  under 
her  mother-in-law's  disapproval.  When  Abel  coughed 
once,  while  he  was  getting  into  his  rubber  coat,  she 
glanced  at  him  angrily.  Why  couldn't  he  have 
waited  at  least  until  he  got  out  of  doors?  Instead 
of  gratitude  she  bore  him  a  dull  resentment  for  hav 
ing  married  her,  and  when  she  looked  back  on  her 
hard  life  in  her  father's  house,  she  beheld  it  through 
that  rosy  veil  of  idealism  in  which  the  imaginative  tem 
perament  envelops  the  past  or  the  future  at  the  cost 
of  the  present.  Then  she  had  had  time,  at  least,  to 
dream  and  to  dawdle!  During  the  seven  months  of 
her  marriage,  she  had  learned  that  for  the  brooding 
soul  there  is  no  anodyne  so  soothing  as  neglect,  no 
comfort  so  grateful  as  freedom  to  be  unhappy. 

Wrhen  the  door  closed  behind  them  Sarah  looked  at 
Blossom  with  an  eloquent  expression.  "Well,  I 
never!"  she  exclaimed,  and  wrung  the  dough  from  her 
hands  into  the  tray  over  which  she  was  standing. 
"Well,  I  never!" 

"I  don't  believe  it's  right  for  Abel  to  give  in  to  Judy 
as  he  does,"  said  Blossom. 

"I  never  saw  a  Revercomb  that  warn't  a  fool  about 
something,"  answered  Sarah.  "It  don't  matter  so 
much  what  'tis  about,  but  it's  obliged  to  be  about 
something." 

Blossom  sighed  and  bent  lower  over  the  seam  she 
was  running.  She  had  long  since  ceased  to  draw  any 
consolation  from  her  secret  marriage,  and  her  wedding 


656  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

ring  (bought  weeks  after  the  ceremony  by  Gay) 
caused  her  pain  rather  than  pleasure  when  it  pressed 
into  her  bosom,  where  it  hung  suspended  by  a  blue 
ribbon  from  her  neck.  Her  strong  Saxon  instinct  for 
chastity  —  for  the  integrity  of  feminine  virtue  — 
sometimes  awoke  in  her,  and  then  she  would  think 
exultingly,  "At  least  I  am  married!"  But  even  this 
amazing  triumph  of  morality  —  of  the  spirit  of  Sarah 
Revercomb  over  the  spirit  of  the  elder  Jonathan 
Gay  —  showed  pallid  and  bloodless  beside  the 
evanescent  passion  to  which  she  had  been  sacri 
ficed.  Destiny,  working  through  her  temperament, 
had  marked  her  for  victory,  but  it  had  been  only  one 
of  those  brief  victories  which  herald  defeats.  The 
forces  of  law  and  order  —  the  sound  racial  instincts 
which  make  for  the  preservation  of  society  —  these 
had  won  in  the  event,  though  they  had  been,  after  all, 
powerless  to  change  the  ultimate  issue.  The  spirit 
of  old  Jonathan,  as  well  as  the  spirit  of  Sarah,  was 
immortal.  The  racial  battle  between  the  soldier  of 
fortune  and  the  militant  Calvinist  was  not  yet  fought 
to  a  finish. 

"I  believe  Abel  would  give  Judy  the  clothes  on 
his  back  if  he  thought  she  wanted  them,"  said  Blossom, 
in  the  effort  to  turn  her  musings  away  from  her  own 
troubles. 

"It    ain't    natural,"    rejoined    Sarah    stubbornly.  ; 
"It's  a  man's  natur  to  be  mean  about  money  matters  t 
whar  his  wife  is  concerned,  an'  when  he  begins  to  be 
different  it's  a  sign  that  thar's  a  screw  loose  somewhar 
inside   of   him.     My   Abner   was   sech   a   spendthrift 
that  he'd  throw  away  a  day's  market  prices  down  at 
the  or'nary,  but  he  used  to  expect  the  money  from  a 


PASSION  IN  A  HUMBLE  PLACE  357 

parcel  of  turkeys  to  keep  me  in  clothes  and  medicines 
and  doctor's  bills,  to  say  nothin*  of  household  linen 
an'  groceries  for  the  whole  year  round." 

Blossom  sighed  softly,  "I  don't  suppose  there  ever 
was  a  man  who  could  see  that  a  woman  needed  any 
thing  except  presents  now  and  then,"  she  said,  "unless 
it's  Abel.  Do  you  know,  grandma,  I  sometimes 
think  he's  so  kind  to  Judy  because  he  knows  he  doesn't 
love  her." 

"Well,  I  reckon,  if  thar's  got  to  be  a  choice  between 
love  and  kindness,  I'd  hold  on  to  kindness,"  retorted 
Sarah. 

It  was  ten  o'clock  before  Abel  and  Judy  returned, 
and  from  the  hurried  and  agitated  manner  of  their 
entrance,  it  was  plain  that  the  Bible  class  had  not 
altogether  appeased  Judy's  temper. 

"She's  worn  out,  that's  the  matter,"  explained  Abel, 
while  they  stopped  to  dry  themselves  in  the  kitchen. 

"You  go  straight  upstairs  to  bed,  Judy,"  said  Sarah, 
"an'  I'll  send  you  up  a  cup  of  gruel  by  Abel.  You 
oughtn't  to  have  gone  streakin'  out  in  this  rain,  an' 
it's  natural  that  it  should  have  upset  you." 

"It  wasn't  the  rain,"  replied  Judy,  and  the  instant 
afterwards,  she  burst  into  tears  and  ran  out  of  the  room 
before  they  could  stop  her. 

"I  declar',  I  never  saw  anybody  carry  on  so  in  my 
life,"  observed  Sarah. 

Abel  glanced  at  her  with  a  perplexed  and  anxious 
frown  on  his  brow.  "You  ought  to  be  patient  with 
her  in  her  condition,"  he  said.  His  own  patience  was 
inexhaustible,  and  its  root,  as  Blossom  had  suspected, 
lay  in  his  remorseful  indifference.  With  Molly  he  had 
not  been  patient,  but  he  had  loved  her. 


358  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

"Don't  talk  to  me  about  patience,"  rejoined  Sarah, 
4* haven't  I  had  nine  an*  lost  six?" 

She  was  entirely  without  I  ho  sentiment  which  her 
son  felt  regarding  the  physical  function  of  motherhood, 
for  like  the  majority  of  sentiments,  it  had  worn  thin 
when  it  had  been  stretched  over  a  continual  repetition 
of  facts.  To  Abel  the  mystery  was  still  shrouded 
in  a  veil  of  sympathy,  and  was  hardly  to  be  thought 
of  without  tenderness.  But  his  solicitude  merely  net 
tled  Sarah.  Nobody  had  ever  "carried  on"  over  her 
when  she  had  had  her  nine. 

i     "Have   you   said    anything   sharp    to   her   to-day, 
mother?"  he  inquired  suspiciously,  after  a  minute. 

"You  know  I  ain't,  Abel.  She  left  a  dirty  glass  in 
the  dairy  an*  I  never  so  much  as  mentioned  it.  Did 
Mr.  Mullen  complain  of  her  leavin*  off  mission  work?" 

"Why,  of  course  not.  He  talked  to  us  only  a  few 
minutes  and  he  seemed  absent-minded.  He's  had  a 
good  call  somewhere  in  the  North,  and  he  told  us  that 
he  had  prayed  over  it  unceasingly  and  he  believed  that 
the  Lord  was  directing  him  to  larger  fields." 

"Did  Judy  hear  that?" 

"Yes,  he  told  us  both." 

Sarah  was  stirring  the  gruel,  and  she  appeared  so  ab 
sorbed  in  her  task  that  the  remark  she  let  fall  a  minute 
later  bore  presumably  no  relation  to  the  conversation. 

"I  sometimes  think  men  ain't  got  any  mo'  sense 
than  an  unborn  babe!"  she  observed. 

Taking  the  cup  from  her  hands,  Abel  went  up  the 
little  staircase  to  the  bedroom,  where  Judy  stood 
before  the  bureau,  with  a  long  black-headed  hat  pin 
in  her  hand.  She  had  evidently  not  begun  to  undress, 
for  her  hat  was  still  on  her  head,  and  under  the  heavy 


PASSION  IN  A  HUMJ5LE  PLACE  359 

* 

shadow  of  the  brim  her  eyes  looked  back  at  her  hus 
band  With  an  accusing  and  hostile  expression. 

"Drink  this,  Judy,  while  it  is  hot,"  he  said  kindly, 
placing  the  cup  on  the  bureau. 

"I  don't  want  it,"  she  answered,  and  her  voice 
sounded  as  if  she  were  ready  to  burst  again  into  tears. 

"Are  you  sick?" 

"No." 

"  I'm  going  to  sleep  in  the  attic.  Call  me  if  you  want 
anything." 

Without  replying  she  took  off  her  hat  and  placed  it  on 
the  top  shelf  in  the  wardrobe.  Had  he  beaten  her  she 
felt  that  she  could  almost  have  loved  him,  but  the  primi 
tive  sex  instinct  in  her  was  outraged  by  his  gentleness. 

"Has  anybody  hurt  your  feelings?"  asked  Abel, 
turning  suddenly  on  his  way  to  the  door. 

"No." 

"Did  the  rector  speak  about  your  giving  up  mission 
work?" 

"No." 

"Then,  for  God's  sake,  what  is  it?"  he  demanded, 
at  his  wit's  end.  "You  look  as  if  you'd  lost  the  last 
friend  you  had  on  earth." 

At  this  she  broke  into  hard  dry  sobs  which  rattled  in 
in  her  throat  before  they  escaped.  A  spasm  of  self-pity 
worked  convulsively  in  her  bosom,  and,  turning  away, 
she  buried  her  face  in  her  arms,  while  the  long,  agonized 
tremors  shook  her  slender  figure.  Looking  at  her, 
he  remembered  bitterly  that  he  had  married  Judy  in 
order  to  make  her  happy.  By  the  sacrifice  of  his  own 
inclinations  he  had  achieved  this  disastrous  result.  If 
he  had  tried  to  do  evil  instead  of  good,  he  could  hardly 
have  wrought  more  irreparable  mischief  —  and  with 


360  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

the  thought,  pity,  which  had  led  him  astray,  winged  off, 
like  an  ironic  sprite,  and  left  his  heart  empty  of  comfort. 

"God  knows  I  am  sorry  for  you,  Judy,"  he  said  in 
the  effort  to  reinforce  his  compassion. 

But  Judy,  though  she  was  avid  of  sympathy,  did  not 
crave  an  expression  of  it  from  her  husband  —  for  her 
temperament  was  of  the  morbid  kind  that  is  happiest 
when  it  is  most  miserable.  Her  heart  had  fed  upon  the 
sustenance  of  her  brain  until  the  abnormal  enlargement 
of  that  single  organ  had  prepared  her  for  inevitable 
suffering  at  the  hands  of  men  —  if  not  from  actual 
unkindness,  yet  from  an  amiable  neglect  which  could 
cut  even  more  deeply.  She  turned  in  the  direction 
of  sentiment  as  instinctively  as  a  plant  turns  toward 
light,  and  the  Reverend  Orlando  Mullen-  had  had 
predecessors  in  her  affections  who  had  been  hardly 
so  much  as  aware  of  her  existence. 

As  Abel  went  out  of  the  door,  her  accusing  eyes 
followed  him  while  she  thought,  with  sentimental 
regret,  of  the  many  things  she  had  given  up  when  she 
married  —  of  Mrs.  Mullen's  ironing  day,  of  the  rec 
tor's  darning,  of  the  red  flannel  petticoats  she  had  no 
longer  time  to  make  for  the  Hottentots.  It  was  over 
one  of  these  flannel  petticoats  that  Mr.  Mullen  had 
first  turned  to  her  with  his  earnest  and  sympathetic 
look,  as  though  he  were  probing  her  soul.  At  the 
moment  she  had  felt  that  his  casual  words  held  a 
hidden  meaning,  and  to  this  day,  though  she  had 
pondered  them  in  sleepless  nights  ever  since,  she  was 
still  undecided. 

"I  don't  believe  he  ever  knew  how  much  I  cared," 
she  said,  as  she  started  mechanically  to  take  out  her 
hairpins. 


CHAPTER  IX 

A  MEETING  IN  THE  PASTURE 

As  JUDY  did  not  appear  next  morning,  her  breakfast ' 
was  carried  up  to  her  by  Sarah,  who  allowed  her  own 
cakes  to  become  leathery  while  she  arranged  the  tray. 
Her  feet  were  still  on  the  staircase,  when  Blossom 
turned  to  Abel  and  said  in  a  furtive  and  anxious  voice: 

"Mrs.  Bottom  told  me  yesterday  the  Gays  were 
coming  back  to  Jordan's  Journey.  Have  you  heard 
anything  about  it?" 

"No,  I  haven't  heard,"  he  answered  indifferently, 
though  his  pulses  throbbed  at  the  words.  Rising  from 
the  table  an  instant  later,  he  went  out  into  the  yard, 
where  the  sunshine  filtered  softly  through  June 
foliage.  By  the  porch  a  damask  rose-bush  was  in 
bloom,  and  the  fragrance  followed  him  along  the  path 
between  the  borders  of  portulaca.  At  the  gate  he 
found  a  young  robin  too  weak  to  fly,  and  lifting  it 
carefully,  he  returned  it  to  the  nest  in  a  pear-tree. 
Like  all  young  and  helpless  things,  it  aroused  in  him 
a  tenderness  which,  in  some  strange  way,  was  akin  to  • 
pain. 

On  the  crooked  sycamore  the  young  leaves  fluttered 
with  shirred  edges,  and  beyond  the  mill  and  the  fallow 
field,  the  slender  green  ribbons  of  the  corn  were  un 
folding.  As  he  gazed  at  the  pines  on  the  horizon,  he 
remembered  the  day  he  had  swung  his  axe  in  joy  under 
their  branches,  and  it  seemed  to  him,  while  he  looked 

361 


362  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

back  upon  it,  that  the  hour  belonged  to  the  distant 
memories  of  his  boyhood. 

"It's  over  now,  and  I'm  not  going  to  whine  about 
it,"  he  said  aloud  to  his  hound.  "A  plain  fool  is 
bad  enough,  Moses,  my  boy,  but  a  whining 
fool  is  the  meanest  thing  God  ever  made  in  man 
or  dog.  Because  I've  lost  the  thing  I  wanted  most, 
I've  no  mind  to  wallow  in  the  dust  —  but,  oh,  Molly, 
Molly!" 

She  came  to  him  again,  not  fair  and  flitting,  but 
ardent  and  tender,  with  her  parted  red  mouth  raised 
to  his,  and  the  light  and  darkness  trembling  on  her 
face  like  faint  shadows  in  the  wind.  And  this  vision 
of  her,  which  was  so  vivid  that  it  shook  his  heart  with 
a  pang  of  agony,  seemed  saying  to  him  in  words  which 
were  not  his  —  which  were  not  words  at  all,  but  some 
subtler  communion  of  sense — "I  am  to  be  loved, [but 
never  possessed,  for,  like  the  essence  of  desire,  I  elude 
forever  the  conditions  of  mortality. " 

A  week  later,  while  the  thought  of  her  burned  like 
fire  in  his  brain,  he  met  her  face  to  face  in  the  path 
which  led  from  the  blazed  pine  over  the  pasture  to 
Jordan's  Journey.  Had  he  seen  her  in  time,  he  would 
have  fled  from  the  meeting,  but  she  appeared  without 
warning  as  he  turned  from  the  turnpike  to  the  bars. 
Almost  before  he  was  aware  of  it,  he  was  within  touch 
of  her  and  looking  into  her  eyes.  She  wore  her  black 
dress  still,  and  the  air  of  elegance,  of  strangeness,  was 
even  more  obvious  than  when  he  had  met  her  at  Apple- 
gate  the  day  before  his  marriage.  Her  face  had  lost 
a  little  of  its  bloom,  and  there  was  a  look  in  it  which  he 
had  never  seen  there  before  —  a  look  which  was  wist 
ful  and  yet  expectant,  as  though,  like  old  Reuben,  she 


A  MEETING  IN  THE  PASTURE  363 

was  hoping  against  knowledge  and  in  despite  of  dis- 
apointment. 

"Molly!"  he  cried,  and  stopped  short,  longing  to 
touch  her  hand  and  yet  with  something,  which  was 
like  conscience  in  the  shape  of  Judy,  restraining  him. 

"Abel,  how  little  you've  changed!"  she  said. 

"Haven't  I?  Well,  you're  yourself,  too,  and  yet 
you're  different." 

"Different?  I  suppose  you  mean  I'm  wearing 
better  clothes?" 

He  smiled  for  the  first  time.  "I  wasn't  thinking 
about  your  clothes.  They  never  seemed  to  matter." 

What  he  had  meant,  though  he  dared  not  utter 
the  thought  aloud,  was  that  she  had  grown  softer  and 
gentler,  and  was  less  the  Molly  of  the  flashing  charm 
and  the  defiant  challenge. 

"Yes,  I've  changed  in  a  way,  of  course,"  she  ad 
mitted  presently,  "I  feel  grown  up  now,  and  I  never 
felt  so  before.  Life  was  all  play  to  me  until  grand 
father  died." 

"And  it  isn't  now?" 

"Not  entirely  —  I'm  still  growing." 

Her  hand  rested  on  the  bars  beside  which  she  was 
standing,  and  the  fragrant  festoons  of  wild  grape 
blooming  beside  the  post,  brushed  softly  against  her 
bosom.  There  was  a  quietness,  a  suggestion  of  re 
straint  in  her  attitude  which  he  had  never  seen  in  the 
old  Molly. 

"The  day  you  went  away  you  told  me  you  wanted 
to  live,"  he  said. 

"I  remember.  I  couldn't  have  done  differently. 
I  had  to  find  out  things  for  myself.  Of  course,  life 
is  all  just  the  same  everywhere,  but  then  I  didn't 


364      THE  MILLER  OF  THE  OLD  CHURCH 

know  it.  I  used  to  think  that  one  had  only  to  travel 
a  certain  distance  and  one  would  pass  the  boundary 
of  the  commonplace  and  come  into  the  country  of 
adventure.  It  was  silly,  of  course,  but  you  see 
I  didn't  know  any  better.  It  was  the  fret  of 
youth,  I  suppose,  though  people  never  seem  to 
think  that  women  ever  feel  it  —  or,  perhaps,  as 
Mrs.  Bottom  used  to  say,  it  was  only  the  Gay  blood 
working  off." 

"1  don't  like  to  hear  you  talk  of  the  Gay  blood  in 
you,"  he  said  quickly. 

His  voice  betrayed  him,  and  looking  up,  she  asked 
quietly,  "How  is  Judy,  Abel?" 

"She's  not  well.  It  seems  she  suffers  with  her 
nerves." 

"I'm  coming  to  see  her.  Judy  and  I  were  always 
friends,  you  know." 

"Yes,  I  know.     You  were  a  friend  to  every  woman." 

"And  I  am  still.  I've  grown  to  love  Aunt  Kesiah, 
and  I  believe  I'm  the  only  person  who  sees  just  how 
fine  she  is." 

"Your  grandfather  saw,  I  think.  Do  you  remem 
ber  he  used  to  say  life  was  always  ready  to  teach  us 
things,  but  that  some  of  us  were  so  mortal  slow  we 
never  learned  till  we  died?" 

Her  eyes  were  starry  as  she  looked  away  from  him 
over  the  meadow.  "Abel,  I  miss  him  so,"  she  said 
after  a  minute. 

"I  know,  Molly,  I  know." 

"Nothing  makes  up  for  him.  All  the  rest  seems  so 
distant  and  unhuman.  Nothing  is  so  real  to  me  as 
the  memory  of  him  sitting  in  his  chair  on  the  porch 
with  Spot  at  his  feet." 


A  MEETING  IN  THE  PASTURE  365 

For  a  minute  he  did  not  reply,  and  when  he  spoke 
at  last,  it  was  only  to  say: 

"I  wonder  if  a  single  human  being  could  ever  under 
stand  you,  Molly?" 

"I  don't  understand  myself.     I  don't  even  try." 

"You've  had  everything  you  could  want  for  a  year 
—  been  everywhere  —  seen  everything  —  yet,  I  be 
lieve,  you'd  give  it  all  up  to  be  back  in  the  cottage  over 
there  with  Reuben  and  his  hound?" 

"Why  shouldn't  I?"  she  answered  passionately, 
"that  was  what  I  loved." 

"I  suppose  you're  right,"  he  said  a  little  sadly, 
"that  was  always  wrhat  you  loved." 

She  turned  her  head  away,  but  he  saw  the  delicate 
flush  pass  from  her  cheek  to  her  throat. 

"I  mean  I  am  faithful  to  the  things  that  really 
matter,"  she  answered. 

"And  the  things  that  do  not  really  matter  are 
men?"  he  asked  with  a  humour  in  which  there  was  a 
touch  of  grimness. 

"Perhaps  you're  right  about  some  of  them,  at  least," 
she  answered,  smiling  at  a  memory.  "I  was  full  of 
animal  spirits  —  of  the  joy  of  energy,  and  there  was 
no  other  outlet.  A  girl  sows  her  mental  wild  oats, 
if  she  has  any  mind,  just  as  a  boy  does.  But  what 
people  never  seem  to  realize  is  that  women  go  on  and 
change  just  as  men  do.  They  seem  to  think  that  a 
girl  stands  perfectly  still,  that  what  she  is  at  twenty, 
she  remains  to  the  end  of  her  life.  Of  course  that's 
absurd.  After  the  first  shock  of  real  experience 
that  old  make-believe  side  of  things  lost  all  attraction 
for  me.  I  could  no  more  go  back  to  flirting  with  Mr. 
Mullen  or  with  Jim  Halloween  than  I  could  sit  down 


366  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

in  the  road  and  make  mud  pies  for  an  amusement. 
How  is  Mr.  Mullen,  by  the  way?"  she  inquired  in  a 
less  serious  tone. 

"Just  the  same.     He's  had  a  call." 

"And  old  Adam?     Is  he  still  living? " 

"He  can't  walk  any  longer,  but  his  mind  is  perfectly 
clear.  Sometimes  his  son  puts  his  chair  into  an  oxcart 
and  brings  him  over  to  the  ordinary.  He's  still  the  best 
talker  about  here,  and  he  frets  if  he  is  left  by  himself." 

For  a  moment  they  were  silent  again.  Old  Adam, 
having  fulfilled  his  purpose,  was  dismissed  into  space. 
Molly  watched  Abel's  eyes  turn  to  the  pines  on  the 
horizon,  and  in  the  midst  of  the  June  meadow,  there 
was  a  look  in  them  that  reminded  her  of  the 
autumnal  sadness  of  nature.  She  had  seen  this  look  in 
Reuben's  face  when  he  gazed  wistfully  at  the  blos 
soming  apple  boughs  in  the  spring,  and  the  thought 
came  to  her  that  just  this  attitude  of  soul  —  this 
steadfast  courage  in  the  face  of  circumstance  —  was 
the  thing  that  life  was  meant  to  teach  them  both  at 
the  end.  If  Abel's  energy  was  now  less  effervescent, 
she  realized  instinctively  that  it  had  become  more 
assured.  Life  or  marriage  —  or,  perhaps,  both  to 
gether  had  "tamed"  him,  as  Reuben  had  prophesied, 
and  the  rough  edges  of  his  character  had  worn  smooth 
in  the  process. 

A  butterfly,  marked  gorgeously  in  blue  and  orange, 
alighted  on  the  bar  by  her  hand,  and  when  it  fluttered 
off  again,  drunken  with  summer,  her  gaze  followed  it 
into  the  meadow,  where  the  music  of  innumerable 
be@s  filled  the  sunshine. 

"And  you,  Abel?"  she  asked,  turning  presently, 
"what  of  yourself?" 


A  MEETING  IN  THE  PASTURE  367 

He  smiled  at  her  before  answering;  and  with  the 
smile,  she  felt  again  the  old  physical  joy  in  his  presence 
—  in  his  splendid  animal  vitality,  in  the  red-brown 
colour  of  his  flesh,  in  the  glow  of  his  dark  eyes,  which 
smiled  down  into  hers.  No  other  man  had  ever 
made  this  appeal  to  her  senses.  She  had  struggled 
sometimes  like  a  bird  in  a  net  against  the  memory 
of  it,  yet  it  had  held  her,  in  spite  of  her  will,  even 
when  she  was  farthest  away  from  him.  The  gentle 
ness  from  which  Judy  revolted,  brought  Molly's  heart 
back  to  him  w^ith  a  longing  to  comfort. 

"Well,  I'm  learning,"  he  answered,  still  smiling. 

"And  you  are  happy?" 

He  made  a  gesture  of  assent,  while  he  looked  over 
her  head  at  the  butterfly  —  which  had  found  its  mate 
and  was  soaring  heavenward  in  a  flight  of  ecstasy. 
The  same  loyalty  which  had  prevented  his  touching 
her  hand  when  they  met,  rebelled  now  against  an  im 
plied  reflection  on  Judy. 

"I  am  glad,"  she  said,  "you  deserve  it." 

She  had  given  her  eyes  to  him  almost  unconsciously, 
and  their  look  was  like  a  cord  which  drew  them  slowly 
to  each  other.  His  pulses  hammered  in  his  ears3  yet  he 
heard  around  him  still  the  mellow  murmuring  of  bees, 
and  saw  the  butterflies  whirling  deliriously  together. 
All  the  forces  which  had  held  him  under  restraint 
stretched  suddenly,  while  he  met  her  eyes,  like  bands 
that  were  breaking.  Before  the  solitary  primal  fact 
of  his  love  for  her,  the  fog  of  tradition  with  which 
civilization  has  enveloped  the  simple  relation  of 
man  and  woman,  evaporated  in  the  sunlight.  The 
harsh  outlines  of  the  future  were  veiled,  and  he  saw 
only  the  present,  crowned,  radiant,  and  sweet  to  the 


368  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

senses  as  the  garlands  of  wild  grape  around  which 
the  golden  bees  hung  in  a  cloud.  For  an  instant  only 
the  vision  held  him;  then  the  rush  of  desire  faded 
slowly,  and  some  unconquerable  instinct,  of  which  he 
had  been  almost  unconscious,  asserted  its  supremacy 
in  his  brain.  The  ghosts  of  dead  ancestors  who  had 
adhered  to  law  at  the  cost  of  happiness;  the  iron 
skeleton  of  an  outgrown  and  yet  an  indelibly  implanted 
creed;  the  tenacity  of  the  racial  structure  against 
which  his  individual  impulses  had  rebelled  —  these 
things,  or  one  of  these  things,  proved  in  the  end 
stronger  than  the  appeal  of  his  passion.  He  longed 
with  all  his  strength  to  hold  her  in  his  arms  —  every 
nerve  in  his  body  ached  for  her  —  yet  he  knew  that 
because  of  this  unconquerable  instinct  he  was  power 
less  to  follow  his  longing. 

"I  don't  think  I  deserve  much,  Molly,"  he  said 
quietly. 

She  hesitated  still,  looking  away  from  him  in  the 
direction  of  her  path,  which  led  over  the  meadow. 

"Abel,  be  good  to  Judy/'  she  said,  without  turning. 

"I  will,  Molly,  I  promise  you." 

He  moved  a  step  toward  the  turnpike,  stopped, 
and  looked  back. 

"I  can't  do  much  for  you,  Molly,"  he  said,  "but  if 
you  ever  need  anybody  to  die  for  you,  remember 
I'm  ready." 

"I'll  remember,"  she  answered,  with  a  smile,  but 
her  eyes  were  misty  when  she  passed  the  blazed  pine 
and  turned  into  the  little  path. 


CHAPTER  X 

TANGLED    THREADS 

IN  FRONT  of  Molly,  the  path,  deep  in  silvery  orchard 
grass,  wound  through  the  pasture  to  the  witch-hazel 
thicket  at  Jordan's  Journey;  and  when  she  entered 
the  shelter  of  the  trees,  Gay  came,  whistling,  toward  her 
from  the  direction  of  the  Poplar  Spring.  He  walked 
rapidly,  and  his  face  wore  an  anxious  and  harassed 
expression,  for  he  was  making  the  unpleasant  discovery 
that  even  stolen  sweets  may  become  cloying  to  a  sur 
feited  palate.  His  passion  had  run  its  inevitable 
course  of  desire,  fulfilment,  and  exhaustion.  So  closely 
had  it  followed  the  changing  seasons,  that  it  seemed, 
in  a  larger  and  more  impersonal  aspect,  as  much, 
a  product  of  the  soil  as  did  the  flame-coloured  lilies 
that  bloomed  in  the  Haunt's  Walk.  The  summer  had 
returned,  and  a  hardier  growth  had  sprung  up  from  the 
ground  enriched  by  the  decay  of  the  autumn.  He  was 
conscious  of  a  distinct  relief  because  the  torment  of  his 
earlier  love  for  Blossom  was  over.  There  was  no  regret 
in  his  mind  for  the  poignant  sweetness  of  the  days  before 
he  had  married  her  —  for  the  restlessness,  the  expec 
tancy,  the  hushed  waitings,  the  enervating  suspense  — 
nor  even  for  those  brief  hours  of  fulfilment,  when  that 
same  haunting  suspense  had  seemed  to  add  the  sharpest 
edge  to  his  enjoyment.  He  did  not  suffer  to-day  if 
she  were  a  few  minutes  late  at  a  meeting;  and  he  dis 
liked  suffering  so  much  that  the  sense  of  approaching 


370  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

bliss  had  never  compensated  for  the  pang  of  it.  Her 
failures  now  merely  made  his  manufactured  excuses 
the  easier.  Once,  when  she  had  not  been  able  to 
come,  he  had  experienced  a  revulsion  of  feeling; 
like  the  sudden  lifting  of  a  long  strain  of  anxiety. 
She  still  pressed  for  an  acknowledgment  of  their  mar 
riage,  while  his  refusal  was  still  based  on  a  very  real 
solicitude  for  his  mother.  Only  in  the  last  six  months 
had  his  feeling  for  Molly  entered  into  the  situation; 
but  like  all  swift  and  unguarded  emotions,  it  absorbed 
the  colour  in  his  thoughts,  while  it  left  both  the  past 
and  the  future  in  the  cover  of  darkness. 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't  wander  off  alone  like  this, 
Molly,"  he  began  as  he  joined  her. 

"Oh,  it's  perfectly  safe,  Jonathan  —  everybody 
knows  me  for  miles  around." 

"But  it  would  make  mother  nervous  if  she  were  to 
hear  of  it.  She  has  never  allowed  Aunt  Kesiah  to  go 
off  the  lawn  by  herself." 

"Poor  Aunt  Kesiah,"  said  Molly  softly. 

He  glanced  at  her  sharply.  "Why  do  you  say 
that?"  he  asked,  "she  has  always  seemed  to  me  to 
have  everything  she  wanted.  If  she  hadn't  had 
mother  to  occupy  her  time,  what  under  heaven  would 
have  become  of  her?" 

"I  wonder?"  she  returned;  "but  has  it  ever  occurred 
to  you  that  Aunt  Kesiah  and  I  are  not  exactly  alike, 
Jonathan?" 

"Well,  rather.     What  are  you  driving  at?" 

Her  answering  smile,  instead  of  softening  the  effect 
of  her  words,  appeared  to  call  attention  to  the 
width  of  the  gulf  that  separated  Kesiah 's  generation 
from  her  own.  The  edge  of  sweetness  to  her  look 


TANGLED  THREADS  371 

tempered  but  did  not  blunt  the  keenness  with  which 
it  pierced.  This  quality  of  independent  decision  had 
always  attracted  him,  and  as  he  watched  her  walking 
under  the  hanging  garlands  of  the  wild  grape,  he 
told  himself  in  desperation  that  she  was  the  only  woman 
he  had  ever  seen  whose  infinite  variety  he  could 
not  exhaust.  The  mere  recollection  of  the  others 
wearied  him.  Almost  imperceptibly  he  was  beginning 
to  feel  a  distaste  for  the  side  of  life  which  had  once 
offered  so  rich  an  allurement  to  his  senses.  The 
idea  that  this  might  be  love,  after  all,  had  occurred 
to  him  more  than  once  during  the  past  six  months, 
and  he  had  met  the  suggestion  with  the  invariable 
cynical  retort  that  "he  hadn't  it  in  him."  Yet  only 
ten  minutes  before,  he  had  watched  Molly  coming  to 
him  over  the  jewelled  landscape,  and  the  heavens 
had  opened.  Once  more  the  unattainable  had  appeared 
to  him  wrapped  in  the  myriad-coloured  veil  of  his 
young  illusions. 

"Molly,"  he  said  almost  in  spite  of  himself,  "what 
would  have  happened  to  us  if  we  had  met  five  or  six 
years  ago?" 

"Nothing,  probably." 

"Well,  I'm  not  so  sure  —  not  if  you  like  me  half 
as  well  as  I  like  you.  You  understand,  don't  you, 
that  I  got  myself  tied  up  —  entangled  before  I  knew 
you  —  but,  by  Jove,  if  I  were  free  I'd  make  you  think 
twice  about  me." 

"There's  no  use  talking  about  what  might  have 
been,  is  there?" 

The  hint  of  his  "entanglement,"  she  had  accepted 
quite  simply  as  a  veiled  allusion  to  an  incident  in  his 
life  abroad.  Her  interest  in  it  would  have  beea  keener 


372          THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

had  she  been  less  indifferent  to  him  as  a  lover,  but 
while  she  walked  by  his  side,  smiling  in  response  to 
his  words,  she  was  thinking  breathlessly,  like  one 
hushed  in  suspense,  "If  Abel  had  only  been  like  that 
a  year  ago,  I  should  not  have  left  him."  That  the 
qualities  she  had  always  missed  in  the  miller  had  devel 
oped  only  through  the  loss  of  her,  she  refused  to  admit. 
A  swift,  an  almost  miraculous  change  had  passed  over 
her,  and  all  the  warm  blood  in  her  body  seemed  to  rush 
back  to  her  heart,  giving  it  an  abundance  of  life. 
The  world  appeared  to  her  in  a  clearer  and  fresher 
light,  as  though  a  perpetual  dawn  were  hanging  above 
it;  and  this  light  shone  into  the  secret  chambers  of 
her  mind  as  well  as  over  the  meadows  and  into  the 
shadowy  places  of  the  Haunt's  Walk.  "  Yes,  if  he  had 
been  like  that  I  should  never  have  left  him  and  all  this 
would  not  have  happened,"  she  thought  again; "and 
if  I  had  been  like  this  would  he  ever  have  quarrelled 
with  me?"  she  asked  herself  the  instant  afterwards. 

And  Gay,  walking  at  her  side,  but  separated  by  a 
mental  universe,  was  thinking  resentfully,  "The  deuce 
of  it  is  that  it  might  just  as  well  never  have  happened ! 
If  I'd  only  been  a  little  less  of  a  fool  —  If  I'd  only 
not  walked  my  horse  across  the  pasture  that  October 
afternoon  —  If  I'd  only  had  sense  enough  to  see  what 
was  coming  —  If  I'd  only  —  oh,  hang  it!" 

"I'd  be  a  better  man  to-day  if  I'd  known  you  sooner, 
Molly,"  he  said  presently.  "A  man  couldn't  tire 
of  you  because  you're  never  the  same  thing  two  days 


in  succession." 


"Doesn't  a  man  tire  of  change?" 
"I  don't  —  it's  the  most  blessed   thing  in  life, 
wonder  why  you've  given  up  flirting?" 


TANGLED  THREADS  373 

"Perhaps  because  there  isn't  anybody  to  flirt  with." 

"I  like  that.     Am  I  not  continually  at  your  service?" 

"But  I  don't  like  your  kind  of  flirting,  somehow." 

"What  you  want,  I  suppose,  is  a  perpetual  supply 
of  Mullens.  Have  you  seen  him,  by  the  way?" 

"He  called  on  Aunt  Angela  this  morning  and  read 
a  chapter  from  the  Bible.  I  heard  it  all  the  way 
downstairs  on  the  porch." 

"And  the  miller?" 

She  was  walking  beside  a  clump  of  lilies,  and  the 
colour  of  the  flowrers  flamed  in  her  face. 

"I  saw  him  for  a  few  minutes  this  morning." 

"How  has  his  marriage  turned  out?" 

"I  haven't  heard.     Like  all  the  others,  I  suppose." 

"Well,  he's  as  fine  a  looking  animal  as  one  often 
encounters.  His  wife  is  that  thin,  drawn  out,  anaemic 
girl  I  saw  at  Piping  Tree,  isn't  she?  Such  men  always 
seem  to  marry  such  women." 

"I  never  thought  Judy  unattractive.  She's  really 
interesting  if  you  take  the  trouble  to  dig  deep  enough." 

"I  suppose  Revercomb  dug,  but  it  isn't  as  a  rule  a 
man's  habit  to  go  around  with  a  spade  when  he's  in 
want  of  a  wife." 

With  an  impetuous  movement,  he  bent  closer  to 
her: 

"Look  here,  Molly,  don't  you  think  you  might  kiss 
me?" 

"I  told  you  the  first  time  I  ever  saw  you  that  I 
didn't  care  for  kissing." 

"Well,  even  if  you  don't  care,  can't  you  occasionally 
be  generous?  You've  got  a  colour  in  your  cheeks  like 
red  flowers." 

"Oh,  have   I?" 


374  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

"The  trouble  is,  I've  gone  and  fallen  in  love  with 
you  and  it's  turning  my  head." 

"I  don't  think  it  will  hurt  you,  Jonathan." 

She  broke  away  from  him  before  he  could  detain 
her,  and  while  a  protest  was  still  on  his  lips,  ran  up 
the  walk  and  under  the  grape  arbour  into  the  back 
door  of  the  house. 

Left  to  himself,  Gay  wheeled  about  and  passed  into 
the  side-garden,  where  he  found  Kesiah  snipping  off 
withered  roses  with  a  pair  of  pruning  shears. 

At  his  approach,  she  paused  in  her  task  and  stood 
waiting  for  him,  with  the  expression  of  interested,  if 
automatic,  attention,  which  appeared  on  her  face,  as 
in  answer  to  some  secret  spring,  whenever  she  was 
invited  to  perform  the  delicate  part  of  a  listener.  She 
had  attained  at  last  that  battered  yet  smiling  acquies 
cence  in  the  will  of  Providence  which  has  been  elo 
quently  praised,  under  different  names,  by  both 
theologians  and  philosophers.  From  a  long  and  un 
complaining  submission  to  boredom,  she  had  arrived 
at  a  point  ef  blessedness  where  she  was  unable  to  be 
bored  at  all.  Out  of  the  furnace  of  a  too  ardent  youth, 
her  soul  had  escaped  into  the  agreeable,  if  foggy,  atmos 
phere  of  middle  age.  Peace  had  been  provided  for  her 
—  if  not  by  generously  presenting  her  with  the  things 
that  she  desired,  still  quite  as  effectually  by  crippling 
the  energy  of  her  desires,  until  they  were  content  to 
sun  themselves  quietly  in  a  row,  like  aged,  enfeebled 
paupers  along  the  south  wall  of  the  poorhouse. 

"Aunt  Kesiah,"  said  Gay,  stopping  beside  her,  "do 
you  think  any  of  us  understand  Molly's  character? 
Is  she  happy  with  us  or  not?  " 


TANGLED  THREADS  375 

It  is  a  pleasant  thing  to  be  at  the  time  of  life,  and  in 
the  possession  of  the  outward  advantages,  which  com 
pel  other  persons  to  stop  in  the  midst  of  their  own 
interesting  affairs  and  begin  to  inquire  if  they  under 
stand  one's  character.  As  Kesiah  lifted  a  caterpillar 
on  a  leaf,  and  carefully  laid  it  in  the  centre  of  the 
grassy  walk,  she  thought  quite  cheerfully  that  nobody 
had  ever  wondered  about  her  character,  and  that  it 
must  be  rather  nice  to  have  some  one  do  so. 

"I  don't  know,  Jonathan;  you  will  tread  on  that 
caterpillar  if  you  aren't  careful. " 

"Hang  the  caterpillar!  I  sometimes  suspect  that 
she  isn't  quite  so  happy  as  she  ought  to  be." 

"She  didn't  get  over  Reuben's  death  easily,  if  that 
is  what  you  mean." 

"I  don't  know  whether  it  is  what  I  mean  or  not." 

"Perhaps  her  development  has  surprised  you,  in 
a  way.  The  first  touch  of  sorrow  changed  her  from  a 
child  into  a  woman.  No  one  ever  realized,  I  suppose, 
the  strength  that  was  in  her  all  the  time." 

Turning  away  from  her,  he  stared  moodily  at  Uncle 
Boaz,  who  was  trimming  the  lawn  beyond  the  minia 
ture  box  hedges  of  the  garden.  Furrows  of  mown 
grass  lay  like  golden  green  wind-drifts  behind  the 
swinging  passage  of  the  scythe,  and  the  face  of  the  old 
negro  showred  scarred  and  wistful  under  the  dappled 
sunshine.  June  beetles,  coloured  like  emeralds,  spun 
loudly  through  the  stillness,  which  had  in  it  an  almost 
human  quality  of  hushed  and  expectant  waiting.  All 
Nature  seemed  to  be  breathing  softly,  lest  she  should 
awake  from  her  illusion  and  find  the  world  dissolved 
into  space. 

"I  wonder  if  it  is  really  the  miller?"     said  Gay 


376  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

suddenly.  "The  truth  is  her  life  seems  empty  of 
something." 

"I  beg  your  pardon?"  returned  Kesiah,  startled, 
for  she  had  been  thinking  not  of  Molly's  life,  but  of 
her  own.  It  was  not  much  of  a  life,  to  be  sure,  but 
it  was  all  she  had,  so  she  felt  it  was  only  natural  that 
she  should  think  about  it. 

"I  said  I  wondered  if  it  were  the  miller,"  repeated 
Gay  a  little  impatiently.  Like  his  mother  he  found 
Kesiah 's  attacks  of  inattention  very  trying  —  and  if 
she  were  to  get  deaf  the  only  position  she  had  ever 
filled  with  credit  would  be  necessarily  closed  to  her. 
What  on  earth  did  she  have  to  occupy  her  any 
way  if  not  other  people's  affairs? 

"I  can  hardly  believe  that,"  she  answered.  "Of 
course  he's  a  very  admirable  young  man,  but  it's  out 
of  the  question  that  Molly  should  worry  her  mind 
about  him  after  he  has  gone  and  married  another 


woman.'3 


Her  logic  seemed  rather  feeble  to  Gay,  but  as  he 
tad  told  himself  often  before,  Kesiah  never  could 
argue. 

"I  hear  the  fellow's  come  out  quite  surprisingly. 
Mr.  Chamberlayne  tells  me  he  is  speaking  now  around 
the  neighbourhood,  and  he  has  a  pretty  command  of 
rough  and  ready  oratory." 

"I  suppose  that  is  why  Molly  is  so  anxious  to  hear 
him.  She  has  ordered  her  horse  to  ride  over  to  a 
meeting  at  Piping  Tree  this  afternoon." 

"What?"     He  stared  at  her  in  amazement. 

"Young  Revercomb  is  going  to  speak  at  an  open  air 
meeting  of  some  kind  —  political,  I  imagine  —  and 
Molly  is  going  to  hear  him." 


TANGLED  THREADS  377 

His  answer  was  a  low  whistle.  "At  what  time?" 
he  asked  presently. 

"She  ordered  her  horse  at  three  —  the  very  hottest 
part  of  the  day." 

"Well,  she'll  probably  have  sunstroke,"  Gay  replied, 
"but  at  any  rate,  I'll  not  let  her  have  it  alone." 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE    RIDE   TO  PIPING  TREE 

A  LOOK  of  surprise  came  into  Molly's  face  when 
she  found  Gay  waiting  for  her,  but  it  passed  quickly, 
and  she  allowed  him  to  mount  her  without  a  word  of 
protest  or  inquiry.  She  had  been  a  good  rider  ever 
since  the  days  when  she  galloped  bareback  on  Reuben's 
plough  horses  to  the  pasture,  and  Gay's  eyes  warmed 
to  her  as  she  rode  ahead  of  him  down  the  circular 
drive,  checkered  with  sunlight.  Yet  in  spite  of  her 
prettiness,  which  he  had  never  dignified  by  the  name 
of  beauty,  he  knew  that  it  was  no  superficial  accident 
of  colour  or  of  feature  that  had  first  caught  his  fancy 
and  finally  ripened  his  casual  interest  into  love.  The 
charm  was  deeper  still,  and  resulted  from  something 
far  subtler  than  the  attraction  of  her  girlish  freshness — 
from  something  vivid  yet  soft  in  her  look,  which  seemed 
to  burn  always  with  a  tempered  warmth.  For  need  of  a 
better  word  he  had  called  this  something  her  "soul," 
though  he  knew  that  he  meant,  in  reality,  certain  latent 
possibilities  of  passion  which  appeared  at  moments  to 
pervade  not  only  her  sensitive  features,  but  her  whole 
body  with  a  flamelike  glow  and  mobility.  While  he 
watched  her  he  remembered  his  meeting  with  Blossom, 
and  the  marriage  to  which  in  some  perfectly  inexplic 
able  manner  it  had  led  him,  but  it  was  not  in  his  power, 
even  if  he  had  willed  it,  to  conjure  up  the  violence  of 
past  emotions  as  he  could  summon  back  the  outlines 

378 


THE  RIDE  TO  PIPING  TREE  379 

of  the  landscape  which  had  served  as  their  objective 
background. 

"Molly,"  he  said,  riding  closer  to  her  as  they  passed 
into  the  turnpike,  "I  wish  I  knew  why  we  are  going 
on  this  wild  goose  chase  after  the  miller?" 

"Fm  not  going  after  him  —  it's  only  that  I  want 
to  hear  him  speak.  I  don't  see  why  that  should  sur 
prise  you." 

"I  didn't  know  that  you  were  interested  in  politics?" 

"I'm  not  —  in  politics." 

"In  the  miller  then?" 

"Why  shouldn't  I  be  interested  in  him?  I've 
known  him  all  my  life." 

"The  fact  remains  that  you're  in  a  different  posi 
tion  now  and  can't  afford  a  free  rein  to  your  sportive 
fancies." 

"He'd  be  the  last  to  admit  what  you  say  about 
position  —  if  you  mean  class.  He  doesn't  believe  in 
any  such  thing,  nor  do  I." 

"Money,  my  dear,  is  the  only  solid  barrier  —  but 
he's  got  a  wife,  anyway. " 

"Judy  and  I  are  friends.  That's  another  reason 
for  my  wanting  to  hear  him." 

"But  to  ride  six  miles  at  three  o'clock  on  a  scorching 
day  to  listen  to  a  stump  speech  by  a  rustic  agitator, 
seems  to  me  a  bit  ridiculous." 

"There  was  no  reason  for  your  coming,  Jonathan. 
I  didn't  ask  you." 

"I  accept  the  reproof,  and  I  am  silent  —  but  I 
can't  resist  returning  it  by  telling  you  that  you  need 
a  man's  strong  hand  as  much  as  any  woman  I  ever 


saw." 


"I  don't  need  yours  anyway." 

"By   Jove,    that's    just   whose,    my   pretty.     You 


S80  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

needn't  think  that  because  I  haven't  made  you  love 
me,  I  couldn't." 

"I  doubt  it  very  much  —  but  you  may  think  so  if 
you  choose." 

"Suppose  I  were  to  dress  in  corduroy  and  run  a 
grist  mill." 

Her  laugh  came  readily. 

"You're  too  fat!" 

"Another  thrust  like  that,  and  I'll  gallop  off  and 
leave  you." 

His  face  was  bent  toward  hers,  and  it  was  only  the 
quick  change  in  her  expression,  and  the  restive  start 
of  her  horse,  that  made  him  swerve  suddenly  aside 
and  glance  at  the  blazed  pine  they  were  passing. 
Leaning  against  the  tree,  with  her  arms  resting  on  the 
bars,  and  her  body  as  still  as  if  it  were  chiselled  out  of 
stone,  Blossom  Revercomb  was  watching  them  over 
a  row  of  tall  tiger  lilies.  Her  features  were  drawn  and 
pallid,  as  if  from  sharp  physical  pain,  and  a  blight  had 
spread  over  her  beauty,  like  the  decay  of  a  flower  that 
feeds  a  canker  at  its  heart. 

With  an  exclamation  of  alarm,  Molly  turned  her 
horse's  head  in  the  direction  of  the  pine,  but  with  a 
hasty  yet  courteous  gesture,  Gay  rode  quickly  ahead 
of  her,  and  leaning  from  his  saddle  spoke  a  few  words 
in  an  undertone.  The  next  instant  Blossom  had  fled 
and  the  two  were  riding  on  again  down  the  turnpike. 

"She  looked  so  unhappy,  Jonathan.  I  wonder 
what  was  the  matter?" 

"She  was  tired,  probably."  He  despised  himself 
for  the  evasion,  for  his  character  was  naturally  an 
open  one,  and  he  heartily  disliked  all  subterfuge.  Yet 
he  implied  the  falsehood  even  while  he  hated  the 


THE  RIDE  TO  PIPING  TREE  381 

necessity  which  forced  him  to  it.  So  all  his  life  he  had 
done  the  things  that  he  condemned,  condemning  him 
self  because  he  did  them.  For  more  than  a  year  now  he 
had  lived  above  a  continuous  undercurrent  of  subter 
fuge  —  he  had  lied  to  Blossom,  he  had  deceived  his 
mother,  he  had  wilfully  encouraged  Molly  to  believe  a 
falsehood  —  and  yet  all  the  time,  he  was  conscious  that 
his  nature  preferred  the  honourable  and  the  candid 
course.  His  intentions  were  still  honest,  but  long  ago 
in  his  boyhood,  when  he  had  first  committed  himself  to 
impulse,  he  had  prepared  the  way  for  his  subsequent 
failures.  To-day,  with  a  weakened  will,  with  an  ever 
increasing  sensitiveness  of  his  nervous  system,  he  knew 
that  he  should  go  on  desiring  the  good  while  he  com 
promised  with  the  pleasanter  aspect  of  evil. 

"She  wouldn't  speak  to  me,"  said  Molly,  "I  can't 
understand  it.  What  did  you  say  to  her?" 

"I  asked  her  if  she  were  ill  and  if  we  could  do  any 
thing  for  her." 

"I  can't  get  over  her  look.  I  wish  I  had  jumped 
down  and  run  after  her,  but  she  went  off  so  quickly." 

So  intense  was  the  sunshine  that  it  appeared  to 
burn  into  the  white  streak  of  the  road,  where  the  dust 
floated  like  smoke  on  the  breathless  air.  From  the 
scorched  hedges  of  sumach  and  bramble,  a  chorus  of 
grasshoppers  was  cheerfully  giving  praise  to  a  universe 
that  ignored  it. 

As  Molly  rode  silently  at  Gay's  side,  it  seemed  to 
her  that  Blossom's  startled  face  looked  back  at  her 
from  the  long,  hot  road,  from  the  waste  of  broomsedge, 
from  the  cloudless  sky,  so  bright  that  it  hurt  the  eyes. 
It  was  always  there  wherever  she  turned:  she  could 
not  escape  it.  A  sense  of  suffocation  in  the  midst 


382  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

of  space  choked  back  the  words  she  would  have  spoken, 
and  she  felt  that  the  burning  dust,  which  hung  low 
over  the  road,  had  drifted  into  her  brain  and  obscured 
her  thoughts  as  it  obscured  the  objects  around  her. 
When,  after  passing  the  ordinary,  they  turned  into 
the  Applegate  road,  the  heavy  shade  brought  a  sensa 
tion  of  relief,  and  the  face  which  had  seemed  to 
start  out  of  the  blanched  fields,  faded  slowly  away 
from  her. 

As  she  entered  the  little  village  of  Piping  Tree, 
her  desire  to  hear  Abel's  speech  left  her  as  suddenly  as 
it  had  come,  and  she  began  to  wish  that  she  had  not 
permitted  herself  to  follow  her  impulse,  or  that  at  the 
last  moment  she  had  forbidden  Gay  to  accompany  her. 
In  place  of  the  cool  determination  of  an  hour  ago,  a 
confusing  hesitancy,  a  baffling  shyness,  had  taken 
possession  of  her,  weakening  her  resolution.  She  felt 
all  at  once  that  in  coming  to  Piping  Tree  she  had 
yielded  herself  to  an  emotion  against  which  she  ought 
to  have  struggled  to  the  end.  Simple  as  the  incident  of 
the  ride  had  appeared  to  her  in  the  morning,  she  saw 
now  that  it  was,  in  reality,  one  of  those  crucial  de 
cisions,  in  which  the  will,  like  a  spirited  horse,  had 
broken  control  and  swerved  suddenly  into  a  diverging 
road  in  spite  of  the  pull  of  the  bit. 

"I  don't  believe  I'll  stay,  after  all,  Jonathan," 
she  said  weakly.  "It's  so  hot  and  I  don't  really  want 
to  hear  him." 

"But  we'rehere  now, Molly , and  he's  already  begun." 
Against  the  feminine  instinct  to  fight  the  battle  and  then 
yield  the  victory,  he  opposed  the  male  determination 
to  exact  the  reward  in  return  for  the  trouble.  "It's 
over  there  in  the  picnic  grounds  by  the  court-house," 


THE  RIDE  TO  PIPING  TREE  383 

he  pursued.  "  Come  on.  We  needn't  dismount  if  you 
don't  feel  like  it  —  but  I've  a  curiosity  to  know  what 
he's  talking  about." 

Her  fuss,  of  course,  he  told  himself,  had  been  foolish, 
but  after  she  had  made  the  fuss,  he  had  no  intention  of 
returning  without  hearing  the  miller.  Abel's  ambition 
as  an  orator  bored  him  a  little,  for  in  his  class  the  gen 
erations  ahead  of  him  had  depleted  the  racial  supply 
of  political  material.  The  nuisance  of  politics  had  been 
spared  him,  he  would  have  said,  because  the  control 
of  the  State  was  passing  from  the  higher  to  the 
lower  classes.  To  his  habit  of  intellectual  cynicism, 
the  miller's  raw  enthusiasm  for  what  Gay  called  the 
practically  untenable  and  ideally  heroic  doctrine  of 
equality,  offered  a  spectacle  for  honest  and  tolerant 
amusement. 

"Oh,  come  on,"  he  urged  again  after  a  moment, 
"we'll  stop  by  the  fence  under  that  cherry-tree  and 
nobody  will  see  us. " 

As  he  spoke  he  turned  his  horse  toward  the  paling 
fence,  while  Molly  hesitated,  hung  back,  regretted 
bitterly  that  she  had  come,  and  then  slowly  followed. 
In  the  cherry-tree,  which  was  laden  with  red  cherries 
a  little  over  ripe,  birds  were  quarrelling,  and  for  a 
minute  she  could  not  separate  the  sound  of  Abel's 
voice  from  the  confusion  around  her.  Then  his  figure, 
standing  under  a  stunted  cedar  on  a  small  raised 
platform,  which  was  used  for  school  celebrations 
or  out-of-door  concerts,  appeared  to  gather  to  itself 
all  that  was  magnetic  and  alive  in  the  atmosphere. 
Of  the  whole  crowd,  including  Gay,  the  speaker  in 
his  blue  shirt,  with  his  head  thrown  back  against  a 
pitch-black  bough  of  the  cedar,  and  his  face  enkindled 


384  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

from  the  fire  of  his  enthusiasm,  seemed  the  one  mascu 
line  and  dominating  intelligence.  To  Molly  he  rep 
resented  neither  orator  nor  reformer,  but  a  compelling 
force  which  she  felt  rather  than  heard.  What  he  said 
she  was  hardly  aware  of  —  for  it  was  emotion  not 
thought  that  he  aroused  in  her. 

"That's  good!"  said  Jonathan  quietly  at  her  side, 
and  glancing  at  him,  she  realized  that  Gay  was  re 
garding  merely  a  picturesque  embodiment  of  the 
economic  upheaval  of  society.  Judging  the  scene  from 
Gay's  standpoint,  she  saw  that  it  was,  after  all,  only 
the  ordinary  political  gathering  of  a  thinly  settled 
community.  The  words,  she  knew  now,  were  familiar, 
It  was  the  personality  of  the  speaker  which  charged 
them  with  freshness,  with  inspiration.  What  was 
it  but  the  old  plea  for  social  regeneration  through 
political  purity  —  an  appeal  to  put  the  dream  of  the 
idealist  into  the  actual  working  of  the  State,  since  it 
is  only  through  the  brain  of  the  dreamer  that  a  fact 
may  be  born  into  the  world. 

"He  can  speak  all  right,"  observed  Gay  careL 
"there's  no  doubt  about  that." 

"I'd  like  to  go,  if  you  don't  mind,"  answered  Molly, 
and  turning  she  rode  softly  away  from  the  picnic? 
grounds  through  the  scattered  hamlet,  too  small  to  be 
called  a  village.  An  old  man,  killing  slugs  in  a  potato 
field,  stared  after  them  with  his  long  stemmed  corn-cob 
pipe  hanging  loosely  between  his  lips.  Then  when, 
they  had  disappeared,  he  shook  his  head  twice  very 
solemnly,  spat  on  the  ground,  and  went  on  patiently 
murdering  slugs. 

"'Tis  that  fly-up-the-creek  miller  as  they've  come 
arter,"  he  muttered.  "Things  warn't  so  in  my  day,  so 


THE  RIDE  TO  PIPING  TREE  385 

they  oughtn't  to  be  so  now.  I  ain't  got  no  use  for 
anything  that  ain't  never  been  befo'." 

And  in  different  language,  the  same  thought  was 
stirring  in  Gay's  mind.  "It's  all  stuff  and  nonsense, 
these  hifaluting  radical  theories.  There's  never  been 
a  fairer  distribution  of  property  and  there's  never 
going  to  be." 

They  rode  in  silence  under  the  flowering  locust- 
trees  in  the  single  street,  and  then,  crossing  the  grassy 
common,  cantered  between  two  ripening  fields  of  oats, 
and  turned  into  the  leafy  freshness  of  the  Applegate 
road.  The  sun  was  high,  but  the  long,  still  shadows 
had  begun  to  slant  from  the  west,  and  the  silence 
was  brooding  in  a  mellow  light  over  the  distance. 

"I  don't  know  what  we're  coming  to,"  said  Gay 
at  last,  when  they  had  ridden  a  mile  or  two  without 
speaking.  What  he  really  meant,  though  he  did  not 
say  it,  was,  "I  don't  know  why  in  the  devil's  name  you 
keep  thinking  about  that  fellow?" 

Though  his  own  emotions  were  superior  to  reason, 
he  was  vaguely  irritated  because  Molly  had  allowed 
hers,  even  in  a  small  matter,  to  assert  such  a  supremacy. 
He  was  accustomed  to  speak  carelessly  of  woman  as 
"an  emotional  being,"  yet  this  did  not  prevent  his 
feeling  an  indignant  surprise  when  woman,  as  occa 
sionally  happened,  illustrated  the  truth  of  his  inherited 
generalization.  A  lover  of  the  unconventional  for  him 
self,  he  was  almost  as  strong  a  hater  of  it  for  the  women 
who  were  related  to  him.  It  would  have  annoyed 
him  excessively  to  see  Kesiah  make  herself  conspic 
uous  in  any  way,  or  deviate  by  a  hair's  breadth  from  the 
accepted  standard  of  her  sex.  And  now  Molly,  with 
whom  he  had  fallen  in  love,  had  actually  flushed 


386  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

and  paled  under  his  eyes  at  the  sight  of  young  Rever- 
comb !  In  some  subtle  manner  she  seemed  to  have 
stooped  in  his  estimation  —  to  have  lowered  herself 
from  the  high  and  narrow  pedestal  upon  which  he 
had  placed  her!  Yet  so  contradictory  are  the  pas 
sions,  that  he  felt  he  loved  her  the  more,  if  possible, 
because  of  the  angry  soreness  at  his  heart. 

Turning  in  the  direction  of  Applegate,  they  contin 
ued  their  ride  at  a  canter,  and  the  afternoon  was  over 
when  they  passed  the  cross-roads  again  on  their  home 
ward  way.  A  thin  mist  floated  like  thistledown 
from  the  marshes,  which  were  so  distant  that  they  were 
visible  only  as  a  pinkish  edge  to  the  horizon.  Large 
noisy  insects,  with  iridescent  wings,  hovered  around 
the  purple,  heavy  scented  tubes  of  the  Jamestown 
weeds  by  the  roadside,  and  the  turnpike,  glimmering 
like  a  white  band  through  the  purple  dusk,  was  span 
gled  with  fireflies.  Gay  was  talking  as  they  ap 
proached  the  blazed  pine,  which  stood  out  sinister  and 
black  against  the  afterglow,  and  it  was  only  when 
Molly  cried  out  sharply  that  he  saw  Blossom's  face 
looking  at  them  again  over  the  tiger  lilies. 

"Why,  what  in  the  deuce!"  he  exclaimed,  not  in 
anger,  but  in  amazement. 

"Blossom,  wait  for  me!"  called  Molly,  and  would 
have  slipped  to  the  ground  had  not  Gay  reached  out 
and  held  her  in  the.  saddle. 

Then  the  figure  of  Blossom,  which  had  waited  there 
evidently  since  their  first  passing,  vanished  like  an 
apparition  into  the  grey  twilight.  The  pallid  face 
floated  from  them  through  the  grape-scented  mist,  and 
Molly's  call  brought  no  answer  except  the  cry  of  a 
whip-poor-will  from  the  thicket. 


CHAPTER  XII 

ONE  OF  LOVE'S  VICTIMS 

A  WEEK  later  Jim  Halloween  stopped  with  a  bit  of 
news  at  Bottom's  Ordinary,  where  old  Adam  Doolit- 
tle  dozed  under  the  mulberry  tree  in  a  rush  chair 
which  had  been  brought  over  in  his  son's  oxcart. 

"Have  you  all  heard  that  our  Mr.  Mullen  has 
accepted  a  call  to  larger  fields?"  he  inquired,  "an* 
that  Judy  Revercomb  has  gone  clean  daft  because  he's 
going  to  leave  us?" 

"She  didn't  have  far  to  go,"  observed  Mrs.  Bottom. 

"Well,  you'd  never  have  known  it  to  look  at  her," 
commented  young  Adam,  "but  'tis  a  true  sayin'  that 
you  can't  tell  the  quality  of  the  meat  by  the  colour  of 
the  feathers." 

"You'd  better  be  speakin'  particular,  suh,  an*  not 
general,"  retorted  old  Adam,  who  was  in  a  querulous 
mood  as  the  result  of  too  abrupt  an  awakening  from 
his  nap.  "What  you  ain't  known  it  doesn't  follow 
other  folks  ain't,  does  it?  Human  natur  is  generally 
made  with  a  streak  of  foolishness  an'  a  streak  of 
sense,  just  as  fat  an*  lean  runs  in  a  piece  of  bacon. 
That's  what  I  say,  an*  I  reckon  I  ought  to  know,  bein' 
turned  ninety." 

"All  the  same  thar's  some  folks  that  ain't  streaked 
at  all,  but  a  solid  lump  of  silliness  like  Judy  Hatch," 
returned  his  son. 

This  was  too  much  for  the  patience  of  the  patri- 

387 


388  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

archial  spirit,  and  old  Adam  began  to  shake  as 
though  he  were  suddenly  smitten  with  palsy. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  contradictin'  me,  suh? 
Didn't  I  bring  you  into  the  world?"  he  demanded. 

A  reproachful  shake  of  the  head  passed  round  the 
group. 

"You  oughtn't  to  contradict  him,  young  Adam. 
Ain't  he  yo'  pa?'  said  Mrs.  Bottom,  rebukingly. 

"I  warn't  contradictin',  I  was  talkin', "  replied  young 
Adam,  abashed  by  the  evident  disapprobation  that 
surrounded  him. 

"Well,  don't  talk,  suh,  until  you  can  talk  sense," 
rejoined  his  father.  "When  a  talker  has  turned 
ninety  an'  can  meet  me  on  equal  ground,  I'll  consent 
to  argue  with  him." 

His  lower  lip  protruded  threateningly  from  his 
toothless  gums,  while  two  tears  of  anger  rolled  slowly 
out  of  his  eyes  and  over  his  veined  and  roughened 
cheeks  to  the  crescent  shaped  hollow  of  his  chin. 
So  deeply  rooted  in  his  mind  was  the  conviction  that 
his  ninety  years  furnished  an  unanswerable  argument 
for  the  truth  of  his  opinions,  that  the  assurance  of 
experience  had  conferred  upon  him  something  of  that 
manner  of  superhuman  authority  with  which  the 
assurance  of  inexperience  had  endowed  Mr.  Mullen. 

"I  for  one  was  al'ays  against  Abel's  marrying," 
interposed  Betsey  with  a  placable  air.  "I  knew  she'd 
be  a  drag  on  him,  an'  now  that  he's  goin'  into  politics 
with  sech  good  chances,  the  mo's  the  pity.  I've 
told  him  so  time  an'  agin  when  he  stopped  at  the 
or'nary." 

At  this  point  the  appearance  of  Solomon  Hatch 
caused  her  to  explain  hurriedly,  "We  were  jest  speakin' 


ONE  OF  LOVE'S  VICTIMS  389 

of  Abel  an'  his  chances  for  the  Legislature.  You've 
got  a  mighty  good  son-in-law,  Solomon." 

"Yes,"  said  Solomon,  sourly,  "yes,  but  Judy's 
a  fool." 

The  confession  had  burst  from  an  overburdened 
soul,  for  like  Gay  he  could  tolerate  no  divergence 
from  the  straight  line  of  duty,  no  variation  from 
the  traditional  type,  in  any  woman  who  was  related 
to  him.  Men  would  be  men,  he  was  aware,  but  if 
any  phrase  so  original  as  "women  will  be  women" 
had  been  propounded  to  him,  he  would  probably 
have  retorted  with  philosophic  cynicism,  that  "he 
did  not  see  the  necessity."  His  vision  was  enclosed 
in  a  circle  beyond  which  he  could  not  penetrate  even 
if  he  had  desired  to,  and  the  conspicuous  fact  within 
this  circle  at  the  moment  was  that  Judy  had  made  a 
fool  of  herself  —  that  she  had  actually  burst  out  crying 
in  church  when  Mr.  Mullen  had  announced  his  accept 
ance  of  a  distant  call !  He  was  sorry  for  Abel,  because 
Judy  was  his  wife,  but,  since  it  is  human  nature  to 
exaggerate  the  personal  element,  he  was  far  sorrier 
for  himself  because  she  was  his  daughter. 

"Yes,  Judy's  a  fool,"  he  repeated  angrily,  and  there 
was  a  bitter  comfort  in  the  knowledge  that  he  had 
first  put  into  words  the  thought  that  had  engaged 
every  mind  at  the  ordinary. 

"Oh,  she's  young  yet,  an'  she'll  outgrow  it,"  ob 
served  Betsey  as  sincerely  as  she  had  made  the  opposite 
remark  some  minutes  before.  "A  soft  heart  is  mo' 
to  be  pitied  than  blamed,  an'  it'll  soon  harden  into 
shape  now  she's  settled  down  to  matrimony." 

"I  ain't  never  seen  a  female  with  an  ounce  of  good 
hard  sense  except  you,  Mrs.  Bottom,"  replied  Solomon. 


390  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

"Thar's  a  contrariness  in  the  rest  of  'em  that 
'em  tryin'  companions  to  a  rational  critter  like  man, 
with  a  firm  grip  on  his  heart.  To  think  of  gittur 
a  husband  like  Abel  Revercomb  —  the  risin'  man  in 
the  county  —  an'  then  to  turn  aside  from  the  comforts 
of  life  on  o'count  of  nothin'  mo'  than  a  feelin'. " 

"Well,  it  ain't  as  if  she'd  taken  a  fancy  to  a  plain, 
ordinary  kind  of  man,"  remarked  Betsey.  "Thar's 
somethin'  mo'  elevatin'  about  a  parson,  an'  doubtless 
it's  difficult  to  come  down  from  a  pulpit  to  common 
earth  when  you've  once  lifted  yo'  eyes  to  it.  Thar 
warn'tno  shame  about  her  cryin'  out  like  that  in  church. 
They  ought  to  have  broke  it  to  her  mo'  gently." 

"I  warn't  thar,"  said  old  Adam,  "but  how  did  Abel 
conduct  himself  ?" 

"Oh,  he  jest  got  up  an'  led  her  out  sort  of  gently, 
while  she  was  cryin'  an'  sobbin'  so  loud  that  it  drowned 
what  Mr.  Mullen  was  sayin', "  replied  Betsey. 

"Thar  ain't  a  better  husband  in  the  county,"  said 
Solomon,  "accordin'  to  a  man's  way  of  lookin'  at  it, 
but  it  seems  a  woman  ain't  never  satisfied." 

"I'm  glad  I  never  married,"  remarked  young  Adam, 
"for  I  might  have  got  one  of  the  foolish  sort  seein' 
as  they're  so  plentiful." 

"Well,  I  never  axed  much  bein'  so  unattractive  to 
the  sex,"  observed  Jim  Halloween,  "an'  as  long  as 
a  woman  was  handsome,  with  a  full  figger,  an'  sweet 
tempered  an'  thrifty  an'  a  good  cook,  with  a  sure  hand 
for  pastry,  an'  al'ays  tidy,  with  her  hair  curlin'  natur 
ally,  an'  neat  an'  fresh  without  carin'  about  dress,  I'd 
have  been  easy  to  please  with  just  the  things  any 
man  might  have  a  right  to  expect." 

"  It's  the  way  with  life  that  those  that  ax  little  usually 


ONE  OF  LOVE'S  VICTIMS  391 

get  less,"  commented  old  Adam,  "I  ain't  sayin*  it's 
all  as  it  ought  to  be,  but  by  the  time  the  meek  inherit 
the  earth  thar'll  be  precious  little  left  on  it  except  the 
leavin's  of  the  proud." 

"Thar  ain't  any  way  of  cultivatin'  a  proud  natur 
when  you're  born  meek,  is  thar?"  inquired  his  son. 

"None  that  I  ever  heerd  of  unless  it  be  to  marry 
a  meeker  wife.  Thar's  something  in  marriage  that 
works  contrariwise,  an'  even  a  worm  of  a  man  will 
begin  to  try  to  trample  if  he  marries  a  worm  of  a  woman. 
Who's  that  ridin'  over  the  three  roads,  young  Adam?" 

"It's  Abel  Revercomb.  Come  in  an'  pass  the  time 
of  day  with  us,  Abel." 

But  the  miller  merely  shouted  back  that  he  had 
ridden  to  Piping  Tree  for  a  bottle  of  medicine,  and  went 
on  at  a  gallop.  Then  he  passed  from  the  turnpike 
into  the  sunken  road  that  led  to  the  mill,  and  the 
cloud  of  dust  kicked  up  by  his  mare  drifted  after  him 
into  the  distance. 

In  spite  of  the  scene  in  church,  Abel  had  felt  no 
resentment  against  Judy.  He  knew  that  she  had  made 
herself  ridiculous  in  the  eyes  of  the  congregation,  and 
that  people  were  pitying  him  on  account  of  her  hope 
less  infatuation  for  the  young  clergyman,  but  because 
he  was  indifferent  to  her  in  his  heart,  he  was  able  to 
look  at  the  situation  from  an  impersonal  point  of  view, 
and  to  realize  something  of  what  she  had  suffered. 
When  Solomon  had  railed  at  her  after  service,  Abel 
had  stopped  him  in  indignation. 

"If  you  can't  speak  civilly  to  my  wife,  you  can 
leave  my  house,"  he  had  said  sharply. 

"Good  God,  man!  Don't  you  know  she's  making 
a  laughin'  stock  of  you?" 


392  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

"That's  a  lie!"  Abel  had  replied  curtly,  and  Solomon, 
with  the  craven  spirit  of  all  natural  despots,  had 
muttered  beneath  his  breath  that  he  "reckoned,  after 
all,  it  must  have  been  a  sudden  attack  of  sickness." 

Of  the  attack  and  its  nature  Abel  had  said  no  word 
after  this  even  to  Judy.  During  that  embarrassed 
walk  out  of  church,  while  she  clung  sobbing  hysteri 
cally  to  his  arm,  he  had  resolved  once  for  all  that,  even 
though  her  behaviour  cost  him  his  ambition,  he  would 
never  stoop  to  reproach  her.  What  right,  indeed, 
had  he  to  reproach  her  when  he  loved  Molly  quite 
as  madly,  if  not  so  openly,  as  she  loved  the  rector? 
It  was  as  if  he  looked  on  Judy's  suffering  through  his 
own,  and  was  therefore  endowed  with  a  quality  of 
understanding  which  his  ordinary  perceptions  would 
never  have  given  him. 

When  he  came  in  sight  of  the  mill,  the  flash  of  red 
wheels  caught  his  eyes,  and  he  distinguished  Mr. 
Mullen's  gig  in  the  road  in  front  of  the  door.  Having 
seen  Judy  as  he  rode  by  on  his  round  of  visits,  the 
rector  had  stopped  for  a  moment  to  inquire  if  she  had 
entirely  recovered  her  health. 

"I  was  much  concerned  about  her  illness  in  church 
yesterday,"  he  remarked,  turning  to  the  miller. 

"I  didn't  know  she  was  up,"  replied  Abel,  observ'  g 
the  inflamed  and  swollen  state  of  her  features,  which 
had  apparently  escaped  the  notice  of  Mr.  Mullen. 
"  Oughtn't  you  to  have  stayed  in  bed,  Judy?"  he 
asked  kindly. 

"Oh,  no,  I'd  rather  be  about,"  responded  Judy 
hurriedly.  "I  came  over  from  the  house  with  a  mes 
sage  for  you  when  I  saw  Mr.  Mullen  passin'. " 

"I  am.  trying  a  young  horse  of  Jim  Halloween's," 


ONE  OF  LOVE'S  VICTIMS  393 

said  the  clergyman,  "my  bay  has  gone  lame,  and  Jim 
offered  me  this  one  for  the  day.  Badly  broken  and 
needs  a  firm  bit.  I'm  inclined  to  believe  that  he  has 
never  been  put  between  shafts  before,  for  I  had  quite 
a  sharp  tussle  with  him  about  passing  that  threshing 
machine  in  Bumpass's  field." 

"Oh,  that  roan's  all  right  if  you  don't  fret  him," 
replied  Abel,  who  had  a  poor  opinion  of  the  rector's 
horsemanship.  "Stop  jerking  at  his  mouth,  and  give 
him  his  head." 

But  the  Reverend  Orlando,  having  drifted  naturally 
into  the  habit  of  thinking  that  he  had  been  placed 
here  to  offer,  not  to  receive,  instruction,  appeared  a 
little  restive  under  the  other's  directions. 

"I  flatter  myself  that  I  possess  the  understanding 
of  horses,"  he  replied.  "I've  never  had  a  disagree 
ment  with  Harry,  though  I've  driven  him  every  day 
since  I  came  here." 

"All  the  same  I'd  keep  a  steady  hand  if  I  were 
going  by  that  threshing  machine  up  the  road,"  re 
joined  Abel,  who  magnanimously  refrained  from  add 
ing  that  he  had  assisted  at  the  purchase  of  Harry,  and 
that  the  horse  had  been  fourteen,  if  a  day,  when  he 
passed  into  the  clergyman's  keeping. 

i  healthful  glow  suffused  Mr.  Mullen's  cheeks, 
while  he  struggled  valiantly  to  conceal  his  annoyance. 
He  was  very  young,  and  in  spite  of  his  early  elevation 
to  a  position  of  spiritual  leadership,  he  remained  after 
all  merely  an  ordinary  mortal.  So  he  stiffened  per 
ceptibly  on  the  shiny  seat  of  his  gig,  and  gave  a 
sharp  pull  at  the  reins,  which  wrenched  the  head  of 
the  young  roan  away  from  a  clump  of  sassafras. 

"It  is  better  for  every  man  to  follow  his  own  ^deas, 


304  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

don't  you  think,  Mr.  Revercomb?"  he  replied, 
advocating  in  his  resentment  a  principle  which  he 
would  have  been  the  first  to  rap  soundly  had  it  been 
advanced  by  one  of  his  parishioners.  "I  mean,  of 
course,  in  the  matter  of  driving." 

"When  do  you  go?"  asked  Judy  suddenly,  and 
turned  her  face  away  because  she  could  not  trust 
herself  to  meet  his  beautiful,  earnest  eyes. 

"Within  a  fortnight.  It  is  important  that  I  should 
assume  my  new  responsibilities  immediately." 

"And  'you  won't  come  back  ever  again?"  The 
meadows  swam  in  a  blur  before  her  eyes,  and  she 
thought  of  the  purple  velvet  slippers  which  would  never 
be  finished. 

He  was  a  kind-hearted  young  man,  who  wished  well 
to  all  the  world,  and  especially  to  those  of  his 
congregation  who  had  profited  spiritually  by  his 
sermons.  If  he  had  suspected  the  existence  of  Judy's 
passion,  it  would  undoubtedly  have  distressed  him  - 
but  he  did  not  suspect  it,  owing  to  a  natural  obliquity 
of  vision,  which  kept  him  looking  away  from  the  world 
as  it  is  in  the  direction  of  a  mental  image  of  the  world 
as  he  imagined  it.  So,  with  an  amiable  word  or  two  of 
regret  that  Providence  had  arranged  his  removal  to 
wider  fields,  he  drove  on,  sitting  very  erect  and  sawing 
earnestly  at  the  mouth  of  the  young  horse. 

"He's  a  first-rate  parson,  but  a  darn  fool  of  a  horse 
man,"  observed  Abel,  with  the  disgust  of  a  good  driver 
for  a  poor  one.  "You'd  better  go  in  and  lie  down, 
Judy,  you  look  like  a  ghost." 

"I  don't  want  to  lie  down  —  I  wish  I  were  dead," 
replied  Judy,  choking  back  her  hysterical  sobs.  Then 
turning  suddenly  into  the  mill,  she  sank  against  the 


ONE  OF  LOVE'S  VICTIMS  395 

old  mill-stone  on  the  wooden  platform  and  burst 
into  a  fit  of  wild  and  agonized  weeping.  Her  hand, 
when  he  touched  it,  was  as  cold  as  clay  and  as  unre 
sponsive  to  his. 

"Judy,"  he  said,  and  his  voice  was  wonderfully 
gentle,  "does  it  really  mean  so  much  to  you?  Are 
you  honestly  grieving  like  this  about  Mr.  Mullen?" 

If  he  had  only  known  it  his  gentleness  to  her  was  the 
thing  for  which  at  times  she  almost  hated  him.  The 
woman  in  her  was  very  primitive  —  a  creature  that 
harked  back  to  the  raw  sensations  of  the  jungle  — 
and  nothing  less  than  the  exercise  of  sheer  brutality 
on  Abel's  part  could  have  freed  her  from  the  charm  of 
the  young  clergyman's  unconscious  cruelty. 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  accusing  eyes,  which 
said,  "I  don't  care  who  knows  that  I  love  him,"  as 
plainly  as  did  her  huddled  and  trembling  figure, 
clinging  pathetically  to  the  old  mill-stone,  as  though 
it  were  some  crudely  symbolical  Rock  of  Ages  which 
she  embraced. 

"Is  it  because  he  is  going  away  or  would  you  have 
felt  this  just  as  much  if  he  had  stayed?"  he  asked,  after 
a  minute  in  which  he  had  watched  her  with  humorous 
compassion. 

Raising  herself  at  the  question,  she  pushed  the  damp 
hair  from  her  forehead,  and  sat  facing  him  on  the  edge 
of  the  platform. 

"I  could  have  borne  it  —  if  —  if  I  might  have  had 
his  sermons  every  Sunday  to  help  me,"  she  answered, 
and  there  was  no  consciousness  of  shame,  hardly  any 
recognition  of  her  abasement,  in  her  tone.  Like  all 
helpless  victims  of  great  emotions,  she  had  ceased  to 
be  merely  an  individual  and  had  become  the  vehicle 


396  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

of  some  impersonal  destructive  force  in  nature.  It 
was  not  Judy,  but  the  passion  within  her  that  was 
speaking  through  her  lips. 

"But  what  good  would  they  have  done  you?  You 
would  have  been  miserable  still." 

"At  —  at  least  I  should  have  seen  him,  an'  —  an' 
been  strengthened  in  my  religion " 

The  grotesque,  the  pitiless  horror  of  it  struck  him 
for  an  instant.  That  she  was  half  distraught  and 
wholly  morbid,  he  saw  from  her  look,  and  the  sight 
awakened  that  indomitable  pity  which  had  served 
always  as  a  medium  for  the  biting  irony  of  life. 

"To  save  my  soul  I  can't  see  what  satisfaction  you 
would  have  got  out  of  that,"  he  remarked. 

"I  did  —  I  did.  They  helped  me  to  be  spiritual 
minded,"  wailed  Judy  with  the  incoherence  of  complete 
despair.  If  her  infatuation  was  ridiculous,  it  occurred 
to  Abel  that  her  courage,  at  least,  was  sublime. 
From  a  distance  and  with  brighter  hair,  she  might 
even  have  been  mistaken  for  a  tragic  example  of 
immortal  passion.  The  lover  in  his  blood  pitied  her, 
but  the  Calvinist  refused  to  take  her  seriously. 

"Well,  if  I  were  you,  I'd  go  in  and  lie  down,"  he  said, 
feeling  that  it  was,  after  all,  the  best  advice  he  could 
offer  her.  "You're  sick,  that's  what's  the  matter 
with  you,  and  a  cup  of  tea  will  do  you  more  good  than 
hugging  that  old  mill-stone.  I  know  you  can't  help 
it,  Judy,"  he  added  in  response  to  a  gesture  of  pro 
testation,  "you  were  born  that  way,  and  none  of  us, 
I  reckon,  can  help  the  way  we're  born."  And  since 
it  is  easier  for  a  man  to  change  his  creed  than  his 
inheritance,  he  spoke  in  the  tone  of  stern  fatalism  in 
which  Sarah,  glancing  about  her  at  life,  was  accustomed 


ONE  OF  LOVE'S  VICTIMS  397 

to  say  to  herself,  "It's  like  that,  an'  thar  wouldn't  be 
any  justice  in  it  except  for  original  sin." 

Judy  struggled  blindly  to  her  feet,  and  still  he  did 
not  touch  her.  In  spite  of  his  quiet  words  there  was 
a  taste  of  bitterness  on  his  lips,  as  though  his  magna 
nimity  had  turned  to  wormwood  while  he  was  speaking. 
After  all,  he  told  himself  in  a  swift  revulsion  of  feeling, 
Judy  was  his  wife  and  she  had  made  him  ridiculous. 

"I  know  it's  hard  on  you,"  she  said,  pausing  on 
the  threshold  in  the  vain  hope,  he  could  see,  that  some 
word  would  be  uttered  which  would  explain  things  or 
at  least  make  them  bearable.  None  was  spoken, 
and  her  foot  was  on  the  single  step  that  led  to  the  path, 
when  there  came  the  sound  of  a  horse  running  wildly 
up  the  road  through  the  cornlands,  and  the  next 
instant  the  young  roan  passed  them,  dragging  Mr. 
Mullen's  shattered  gig  in  the  direction  of  the  turnpike. 

"Let  me  get  there,  Judy,"  said  Abel,  pushing  her  out 
of  his  way,  "something  has  happened!" 

But  his  words  came  too  late.  At  sight  of  the  empty 
gig,  she  uttered  a  single  despairing  shriek,  and  started 
at  a  run  down  the  bank,  and  over  the  mill-stream. 
Midway  of  the  log,  she  stumbled,  shrieked  again,  and 
fell  heavily  to  the  stream  below,  from  which  Abel 
caught  her  up  as  if  she  were  a  child,  and  carried  her 
to  the  opposite  side,  and  across  the  rocky  road  to 
the  house.  As  she  lay  on  Sarah's  bed,  with  Blossom 
working  over  her,  she  began  to  scream  anew,  half 
unconsciously,  in  the  voice  of  frenzied  terror  with 
which  she  had  cried  out  at  the  sound  of  the  running 
horse.  Her  face  was  grey,  but  around  her  mouth  there 
was  a  blue  circle  that  made  it  look  like  the  sunken 
mouth  of  an  old  woman,  and  her  eyes  —  in  which 


398  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

that  stark  terror  was  still  visible,  as  though  it  had  been 
rendered  indelible  by  the  violence  of  the  shock  that  had 
called  it  into  being  —  seemed  looking  through  the 
figures  around  her,  with  the  intense  yet  unseeing  gaze 
with  which  one  might  look  through  shadows  in  search 
of  an  object  one  does  not  find. 

"Get  the  doctor  at  once,  Abel,"  said  Blossom. 
"Grandma  says  something  has  happened  to  bring  on 
Judy's  time.  Had  you  two  been  quarrelling?" 

"Good  God,  no.  Mr.  Mullen's  horse  ran  away 
with  him  and  Judy  saw  it  before  I  could  catch  her. 
I  don't  know  yet  whether  he  is  dead  or  alive." 

"I  saw  him  running  bareheaded  through  the  corn 
field  just  as  you  brought  Judy  in,  and  I  wondered  what 
was  the  matter.  He  was  going  after  his  horse,  I 
suppose." 

"Well,  he's  done  enough  harm  for  one  day.  I'm 
off  to  Piping  Tree  for  Dr.  Fairley." 

But  two  hours  later,  when  he  returned,  with  the 
physician  on  horseback  at  his  side,  Mr.  Mullen's 
driving,  like  most  earnest  yet  ignorant  endeavours, 
had  already  resulted  in  disaster.  All  night  they 
worked  over  Judy,  who  continued  to  stare  through 
them,  as  though  they  were  but  shadows  which  pre 
vented  her  from  seeing  the  object  for  which  she  was 
looking.  Then  at  sunrise,  having  brought  a  still-born 
child  into  the  world,  she  turned  her  face  to  the  wall 
and  passed  out  of  it  in  search  of  the  adventure  that 
she  had  missed. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

WHAT  LIFE  TEACHES 

JUDY  was  laid  away  amid  the  low  green  ridges  in 
the  churchyard,  where  the  drowsy  hum  of  the  thresh 
ing  in  a  wheatfield  across  the  road,  was  the  only 
reminder  of  the  serious  business  of  life.  And  imme 
diately,  as  if  the  beneficent  green  had  enveloped  her 
memory,  her  weaknesses  were  effaced  and  her  virtues 
were  exalted  in  the  minds  of  the  living.  Their  judg 
ment  was  softened  by  a  vague  feeling  of  awe,  but  they 
were  not  troubled,  while  they  stood  in  a  solemn  and 
curious  row  around  her  grave,  by  any  sense  of  the 
pathetic  futility  of  individual  suffering  in  the  midst 
of  a  universe  that  creates  and  destroys  in  swarms. 
The  mystery  aroused  no  wonder  in  their  thoughts, 
for  the  blindness  of  habit,  which  passes  generally  for 
the  vision  of  faith,  had  paralyzed  in  youth  their 
groping  spiritual  impulses. 

On  the  following  Sunday,  before  leaving  for 
fresher  fields,  Mr.  Mullen  preached  a  sermon  which 
established  him  forever  in  the  hearts  of  his  congrega 
tion,  and  in  the  course  of  it,  he  alluded  tenderly  to 
44  the  exalted  Christian  woman  who  has  been  recently 
removed  from  among  us  to  a  brighter  sphere."  It 
was,  on  the  whole,  as  Mrs.  Gay  observed  afterwards, 
"his  most  remarkable  effort";  and  even  Sarah  Rever- 
comb,  who  had  heard  that  her  daughter-in-law  was 
to  be  mentioned  in  the  pulpit,  and  had  attended  from 

399 


400  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

the  same  spiritual  pride  with  which  she  had  read  the 
funeral  notice  in  the  Applegate  papers,  admitted  on 
her  way  home  that  she  "wished  poor  Judy  could 
have  heard  him."  In  spite  of  the  young  woman's 
removal  to  a  sphere  which  Mr.  Mullen  had  described 
as  "brighter,"  she  had  become  from  the  instant  of 
her  decease,  "poor  Judy"  in  Sarah's  thoughts  as  well 
as  on  her  lips. 

To  Abel  her  death  had  brought  a  shock  which  was 
not  so  much  a  sense  of  personal  regret,  as  an  intensi 
fied  expression  of  the  pity  he  had  felt  for  her  while  she 
lived.  The  huddled  figure  against  the  mill-stone  had 
acquired  a  new  significance  in  the  act  of  dying.  A 
dignity  which  had  never  been  hers  in  life,  enfolded  her 
when  she  lay  with  the  accusing  and  hostile  look  in  her 
face  fading  slowly  into  an  expression  of  peace.  With 
the  noble  inconsistency  of  a  generous  heart,  he  began 
to  regard  Judy  dead  with  a  tenderness  he  had  never 
been  able  to  feel  for  Judy  living.  The  less  she  de 
manded  of  him,  the  more  he  was  ready  to  give  her. 

"I  declar'  it  does  look  as  if  Abel  was  mournin'," 
remarked  Betsey  Bottom  to  Sarah  on  a  September 
afternoon  several  months  later.  "It  ain't  in  the 
natur  of  man  to  mourn,  an'  'tis  mo'  surprisin'  in  his 
case  seein'  he  jest  married  her  to  get  even  with 
Molly." 

"I  don't  believe  myself  in  settin'  round  an*  nursin* 
grief,"  responded  Sarah,  "a  proper  show  of  respect 
is  well  an'  good,  but  nobody  can  expect  a  hearty, 
able  bodied  man  to  keep  his  thoughts  turned  on  the 
departed.  With  women,  now,  it's  different,  for  thar's 
precious  little  satisfaction  some  women  get  out  of 
thar  husbands  till  they  start  to  wearin'  weeds  for  'em." 


WHAT  LIFE  TEACHES  401 

"You've  worn  weeds  steady  now,  ain't  you,  Mrs. 
Revercomb?" 

Sarah  set  her  mouth  tightly.  "They  were  too 
costly  to  lay  away,"  she  replied,  and  the  words  were 
as  real  a  eulogy  of  her  husband  as  she  had  ever  uttered. 

"It's  a  pity  Abel  lost  Molly  Merry  weather,"  said 
Betsey.  "Is  thar  any  likelihood  of  thar  comin' 
together  again?  Or  is  it  true  —  as  the  rumour  keeps 
up  —  that  she  is  goin'  to  marry  Mr.  Jonathan  befo' 
many  months?" 

"It  ain't  likely  she'll  throw  away  all  that  good 
money  once  sire's  got  used  to  it,"  said  Sarah.  "For 
my  part,  I  don't  hold  with  the  folks  that  blamed  her 
for  her  choice.  Thar  ain't  many  husbands  that 
would  be  worthy  of  thar  hire,  an'  how  was  she  to  find 
out,  till  she  tried,  if  Abel  was  one  of  those  few  or  not?" 

"He  al'ays  seemed  to  me  almost  too  promisin'  for 
his  good  looks,  Mrs.  Revercomb.  I'm  mighty  partial 
to  looks  in  a  man,  thar  ain't  no  use  my  denyin'  it." 

"Well,  I  ain't,"  said  Sarah,  "they're  no  mo'  than 
dross  an'  cobwebs  in  my  sight,  but  we're  made  different 
an'  thar's  no  sense  argurin'  about  tastes  —  though  I 
must  say  for  me  that  I  could  never  understand  how  a 
modest  woman  like  you  could  confess  to  takin'  pleasure 
in  the  sight  of  a  handsome  man." 

"Well,  immodest  or  not,  I  hold  to  it,"  replied  Betsey 
in  as  amiable  a  manner  as  if  there  had  been  no  reflection 
upon  her  refinement.  "Abel  stands  a  good  chance 
for  the  legislature  now,  don't  he?" 

"I  ain't  a  friend  to  that,  for  I  never  saw  the  man  yet 
that  came  out  of  politics  as  clean  as  he  went  into  'em, 
and  thar  ain't  nothin'  that  takes  the  place  of  cleanness 
with  me."  In  her  heart  she  felt  for  Betsey  something 


402  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

of  the  contempt  which  the  stoic  in  all  ranks  of  life  feels 
for  the  epicurean. 

At  supper  that  night  Sarah  repeated  this  conversa 
tion,  and  to  her  astonishment,  not  Abel,  but  Blossom, 
went  pitiably  white  and  flinched  back  sharply  as  if 
fearing  a  second  fall  of  the  lash. 

"I  don't  believe  it!  Mr.  Jonathan  will  never 
marry  Molly.  There's  no  truth  in  it!"  she  cried. 

Over  the  coffee-pot  which  she  was  holding,  Sarah 
stared  at  her  in  perplexity.  "Why,  whatever  has 
come  over  you,  Blossom?"  she  asked. 

"You  haven't  been  yo'self  for  a  considerable  spell, 
daughter,"  said  Abner,  turning  to  her  with  a  pathetic, 
anxious  expression  on  his  great  hairy  face.  "Do  you 
feel  sick  or  mopin'?" 

He  looked  at  Blossom  as  a  man  looks  at  the  only 
thing  he  loves  in  life  when  he  sees  that  thing  suffer 
ing  beneath  his  eyes  and  cannot  divine  the  cause. 
The  veins  grew  large  and  stood  out  on  his  forehead, 
and  the  big  knotted  hand  that  was  carrying  his  cup  to 
his  lips,  trembled  in  the  air  and  then  sank  slowly 
back  to  the  table.  His  usually  dull  and  indifferent 
gaze  became  suddenly  piercing  as  if  it  were  charged 
with  electricity. 

"It's  nothing,  father,"  said  Blossom,  pressing  her 
hand  to  her  bosom,  as  though  she  were  choking 
for  breath,  "and  it's  all  silly  talk,  I  know,  about 
Molly." 

"What  does  it  matter  to  you  if  it's  true?"  demanded 
Sarah  tartly,  but  Blossom,  driven  from  the  room  by  a 
spasm  of  coughing,  had  already  disappeared. 

It  was  a  close  September  night,  and  as  Abel  crossed 
the  road  to  look  for  a  young  heifer  in  the  meadow 


WHAT  LIFE  TEACHES  403 

the  heavy  scent  of  the  Jamestown  weeds  seemed  to 
float  downward  beneath  the  oppressive  weight  of  the 
atmosphere.  The  sawing  of  katydids  came  to  him 
out  of  the  surrounding  darkness,  through  which  a 
light,  gliding  like  a  gigantic  glow-worm  along  the 
earth,  revealed  presently  the  figure  of  Jonathan  Gay, 
mounted  on  horseback,  and  swinging  a  lantern  from 
his  saddle. 

"A  dark  night,  Revercomb." 

"Yes,  there'll  be  rain  before  morning." 

"Well,  it  won't  do  any  harm.  The  country  needs  it. 
I'm  glad  to  hear,  by  the  way,  that  you  are  going  into 
politics.  You're  a  capital  speaker.  I  heard  you  last 
summer  at  Piping  Tree." 

He  rode  on,  and  Abel  forgot  the  meeting  until,  on 
his  way  back  from  the  meadow,  he  ran  against  Blossom, 
who  was  coming  rather  wildly  from  the  direction  in 
which  Jonathan  had  vanished. 

"WTiat  has  upset  you  so,  Blossom?  You  are  like 
a  ghost.  Did  you  meet  Mr.  Jonathan?" 

"No,  why  should  I  meet  Mr.  Jonathan?  What 
do  you  mean?" 

"Oh,  he  went  up  the  road  a  quarter  of  an  hour  ago, 
that  is  all." 

Without  replying  she  turned  from  him  and  ran 
into  the  house,  while  following  her  more  soberly,  he 
asked  himself  carelessly  what  could  have  happened 
to  disturb  her.  "I  wonder  if  she  is  frettin'  about 
the  rector?"  he  thought,  and  his  utter  inability  to 
understand,  or  even  to  recognize  the  contradictions 
in  the  nature  of  women  oppressed  his  mind.  "First, 
she  wanted  Mr.  Mullen  and  he  didn't  want  her,  then 
he  wanted  her  and  she  didn't  want  him,  and  now 


404  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

when  he's  evidently  left  off  caring  again,  she  appears 
to  be  grievin'  herself  sick  about  him.  I  wonder 
if  it's  always  like  that  —  everybody  wanting  the 
person  that  wants  somebody  else?  And  yet  I  know 
I  loved  Molly  a  hundred  times  more,  if  that  were 
possible,  when  I  believed  she  cared  for  me."  He 
remembered  the  December  afternoon  so  many  years 
ago,  when  she  had  run  away  from  the  school  in  Apple- 
gate,  and  he  had  found  her  breasting  a  heavy  snow 
storm  on  the  road  to  Jordan's  Journey.  Against  the 
darkness  he  saw  her  so  vividly,  as  she  looked  with  the 
snow  powdering  her  hair  and  her  eyes  shining  happily 
up  at  him  when  she  nestled  for  warmth  against  his  arm, 
that  for  a  minute  he  could  hardly  believe  that  it  was 
eight  years  ago  and  not  yesterday. 

Several  weeks  later,  on  a  hazy  October  morning, 
when  the  air  was  sharp  with  the  scent  of  cider  presses 
and  burning  brushwood,  he  met  Molly  returning  from 
the  cross-roads,  in  the  short  path  over  the  pasture. 

"I  thought  you  had  gone,"  he  said,  and  held  out 
his  hand. 

"Not  yet.   Mrs.  Gay  wants  to  stay  through  October." 

In  her  hand  she  held  a  bunch  of  golden-rod,  and 
behind  her  the  field  in  which  she  had  gathered  it, 
flamed  royally  in  the  sunlight. 

"Did  you  know  that  I  rode  to  Piping  Tree  to  hear 
you  speak  one  day  in  June?"  she  asked  suddenly. 

"I  didn't  know  it,  but  it  was  nice  of  you." 

His  renunciation  had  conferred  a  dignity  upon  him 
which  had  in  it  something  of  the  quiet  and  the  breadth 
of  the  Southern  landscape.  She  knew  while  she  looked 
at  him  that  he  had  accepted  her  decision  once  for  all  — 
that  he  still  accepted  it  in  spite  of  the  ensuing  logic  of 


WHAT  LIFE  TEACHES  405 

events  which  had  refuted  its  finality.  The  choice 
had  been  offered  her  between  love  and  the  world,  and 
she  had  chosen  the  world  —  chosen  in  the  heat  of  youth, 
in  the  thirst  for  experience.  She  had  not  loved 
enough.  Her  love  had  been  slight,  young,  yielding 
too  easily  to  the  impact  of  other  desires.  There  had 
been  no  illusion  to  shelter  it.  She  had  never,  she  remem 
bered  now,  had  any  illusions  —  all  had  been  of  the  sub 
stance  and  the  fibre  of  reality.  Then,  with  the  lucidity  of 
vision  through  which  she  had  always  seen  and  weighed 
the  values  of  her  emotions,  she  realized  that  if  she  had 
the  choice  to  make  over  again,  she  could  not  make  it 
differently.  At  the  time  flight  from  love  was  as 
necessary  to  her  growth  as  the  return  to  love  was 
necessary  to  her  happiness  to-day.  She  saw  clearly 
that  her  return  was,  after  all,  the  result  of  her  flight. 
If  she  had  not  chosen  the  world,  she  would  never  have 
known  how  little  the  world  signified  in  comparison 
with  simpler  things.  Life  was  all  of  a  single  piece; 
it  was  impossible  to  pull  it  apart  and  say  "without 
this  it  would  have  been  better"  —  since  nothing  in 
it  was  unrelated  to  the  rest,  nothing  in  it  existed  by 
itself  and  independent  of  the  events  that  preceded 
it  and  came  after  it.  Born  as  she  had  been  out  of 
sin,  and  the  tragic  expiation  of  sin,  she  had  learned 
more  quickly  than  other  women,  as  though  the  spectre 
of  the  unhappy  Janet  stood  always  at  her  side  to  help 
her  to  a  deeper  understanding  and  a  sincerer  pity. 
She  knew  now  that  if  she  loved  Abel,  it  was  because 
all  other  interests  and  emotions  had  faded  like  the 
perishable  bloom  on  the  meadow  before  the  solid,  the 
fundamental  fact  of  her  need  of  him. 

"Do  you  still  get  books  from  the  library  in  Apple- 


406  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

gate?"  she  asked  because  she  could  think  of  nothing 
to  say  that  sounded  less  trivial. 

"Sometimes,  and  second  hand  ones  from  a  dealer 
I've  found  there.  One  corner  of  the  mill  is  given  up 
to  them." 

Again  there  was  silence,  and  then  she  said  impul 
sively  in  her  old  childlike  way. 

"Abel,  have  you  ever  forgiven  me?" 

"There  was  nothing  to  forgive.  You  see,  Ive 
learned,  Molly." 

"What  you've  learned  is  that  I  wasn't  worth  loving, 
I  suppose?" 

He  laughed  softly.  "The  truth  is,  I  never  knew 
how  much  you  were  worth  till  I  gave  you  up,"  he 
answered. 

"  It  was  the  same  way  with  me  —  that's  life,  perhaps." 

"That  sounded  like  my  mother.  You're  too  young 
to  have  learned  what  it  means." 

"I  don't  believe  I  was  ever  young  —  I  seem  to  have 
known  about  the  sadness  of  life  from  my  cradle.  That 
was  why  I  wanted  so  passionately  some  of  its  gaiety. 
I  remember  I  used  to  think  that  Paris  meant  gaiety, 
but  when  we  went  there  I  couldn't  get  over  my  sur 
prise  because  of  all  the  ragged  people  and  the  poor, 
miserable  horses.  They  spoiled  it  for  me." 

"The  secret  is  not  to  look,  isn't  it?"  he  asked. 

"Yes.  Jonathan  never  looked.  It  all  depends, 
he  used  to  tell  me  —  upon  which  set  of  facts  I  chose 
to  regard  —  and  he  calls  it  philosophical  not  to  regard 
any  but  pleasant  ones." 

"Perhaps  he's  right,  but  isn't  it,  after  all,  a  question 
of  the  way  he's  made?" 

"Everything  is;  grandfather  used   to  say  that  was 


WHAT  LIFE  TEACHES  407 

why  he  was  never  able  to  judge  people.  Life  was 
woven  of  many  colours,  like  Joseph's  coat,  he  once  told 
me,  and  we  could  make  dyes  run,  but  we  couldn't  wash 
them  entirely  out.  He  couldn't  make  himself  resentful 
when  he  tried  —  not  even  with  —  with  Mr.  Jonathan." 

"Have  you  ever  forgiven  him,  Molly?" 

"I've  sometimes  thought  that  he  was  sorry  at  the 
end  —  but  how  could  that  undo  the  way  he  treated 
my  mother?  Being  sorry  when  you're  dying  doesn't 
help  things  you've  hurt  in  life  —  but,  then,  grand 
father  would  have  said,  I  suppose,  that  it  was  life, 
not  Mr.  Jonathan,  that  was  to  blame.  And  I  can 
see,  too,  in  a  way,  that  we  sometimes  do  things  we 
don't  want  to  do  —  that  we  don't  even  mean  to  do  — 
that  we  regret  ever  afterwards  —  just  because  life 
drives  us  to  do  them  —  ':  For  a  minute  she  hesitated, 
and  then  added  bravely,  "I  learned  that  by  taking 
Mr.  Jonathan's  money." 

"But  you  were  right,"  he  answered. 

"To  have  the  choice  between  love  and  money,  and 
to  choose  —  money?" 

"You're  putting  it  harshly.  It  wasn't  money  you 
chose  —  it  was  the  world  or  Old  Church  —  Jordan's 
Journey  or  the  grist  mill." 

For  a  moment  the  throbbing  of  her  heart  stifled  her. 
Then  she  found  her  voice. 

"If  I  had  the  choice  now  I'd  choose  Old  Church  and 
the  grist  mill,"  she  said. 

There  was  a  short  silence,  and  while  it  lasted  she 
waited  trembling,  her  hand  outstretched,  her  mouth 
quivering  for  his  kisses.  She  remembered  how  eagerly 
his  lips  had  turned  to  hers  in  the  past  as  one  who 
thirsted  for  water. 


408  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

But  when  he  spoke  again  it  was  in  the  same  quiet 
voice. 

"Would  you,  Molly!"  he  answered  gently,  and  that 
was  all.  It  was  not  a  question,  but  an  acceptance. 
He  made  no  movement  toward  her.  His  eyes  did 
not  search  her  face. 

They  turned  and  walked  slowly  across  the  pasture, 
over  the  life-everlasting,  which  diffused  under  their 
feet  a  haunting  and  ghostly  fragrance.  Myriads  of 
grasshoppers  chanted  in  the  warm  sunshine,  and  a 
roving  scent  of  wood-smoke  drifted  to  them  from  a 
clearing  across  the  road.  It  was  the  season  of  the 
year  when  the  earth  wears  its  richest  and  its  most 
ephemeral  splendour;  when  its  bloom  is  so  poignantly 
lovely  that  it  seems  as  if  a  breath  would  destroy  it, 
and  the  curves  of  hill  and  field  melt  like  shadows 
into  the  faint  purple  haze  on  the  horizon. 

"If  I  could  change  it  all  now  —  could  take  you  out 
of  the  life  that  suits  you  and  bring  you  back  to  the 
mill  —  I  wouldn't  do  it.  I  like  to  think  I'm  decent 
enough  not  even  to  want  to  do  it,"  he  said. 

They  had  reached  the  fence  that  separated  Gay's 
pasture  from  his,  and  stopping,  he  held  out  his  hand 
with  a  smile. 

"I  hear  you're  to  marry  Jonathan  Gay,"  he  added, 
"and  whether  you  do  or  not,  God  bless  you." 

"But  I'm  not,  Abel!"  she  cried  passionately  as  he 
turned  away. 

He  did  not  look  back,  and  when  he  had  passed  out 
of  hearing,  she  repeated  her  words  with  a  passionate 
repudiation  of  the  thing  he  had  suggested,  "I'm  not, 
Abel!  — I'm  not!" 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE  TURN  OF  THE  WHEEL 

TEARS  blinded  her  eyes  as  she  crossed  the  pasture, 
and  when  she  brushed  them  away,  she  could  see  noth 
ing  distinctly  except  the  single  pointed  maple  that 
lifted  its  fiery  torch  above  the  spectral  procession  of 
aspens  in  the  graveyard.  She  had  passed  under  the 
trees  at  the  Poplar  Spring,  and  was  deep  in  the  witch- 
hazel  boughs  which  made  a  screen  for  the  Haunt's 
Walk,  when  beyond  a  sudden  twist  in  the  path,  she  saw 
ahead  of  her  the  figures  of  Blossom  Revercomb  and 
Jonathan  Gay.  At  first  they  showed  merely  in  dim 
outlines  standing  a  little  apart,  with  the  sunlit  branch 
of  a  sweet  gum  tree  dropping  between  them.  Then  as 
Molly  went  forward  over  the  velvety  carpet  of  leaves, 
she  saw  the  girl  make  a  swift  and  appealing  movement 
of  her  arms. 

"Oh,  Jonathan,  if  you  only  would!  I  can't  bear 
it  any  longer!"  she  cried,  with  her  hands  on  his 
shoulders . 

He  drew  away,  kindly,  almost  caressingly.  He 
was  in  hunting  clothes,  and  the  barrel  of  his  gun, 
Molly  saw,  came  between  him  and  Blossom,  gently 
pressing  her  off. 

"You  don't  understand,  Blossom,  I've  told  you  a 
hundred  times  it  is  out  of  the  question,"  he  answered. 

Then  looking  up  his  eyes  met  Molly's,  and  he  stood 
silent,  without  defence  or  explanation,  before  her. 

409 


410  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

"What  is  impossible,  Jonathan?  Can  I  help  you?" 
she  asked  impulsively,  and  going  quickly  to  Blossom's 
side,  she  drew  the  girl's  weeping  face  to  her  breast. 
"You're  in  trouble,  darling  —  tell  me,  tell  Molly 
about  it,"  she  said. 

As  they  clung  together  in  a  passion  of  despair  and 
of  pity  —  the  one  appealing  by  sheer  helplessness,  the 
other  giving  succour  out  of  an  abundant  self- 
reliance  —  Gay  became  conscious  that  he  was  witness 
ing  the  secret  wonder  of  Molly's  nature.  The  relation 
of  woman  to  man  was  dwarfed  suddenly  by  an 
understanding  of  the  relation  of  woman  to  woman. 
Deeper  than  the  dependence  of  sex,  simpler,  more 
natural,  closer  to  the  earth,  as  though  it  still  drew  its 
strength  from  the  soil,  he  realized  that  the  need  of 
woman  for  woman  was  not  written  in  the  songs  nor 
in  the  histories  of  men,  but  in  the  neglected  and 
frustrated  lives  which  the  songs  and  the  histories  of 
men  had  ignored. 

"Tell  me,  Blossom  —  tell  Molly,"  said  the  soft 
voice  again. 

"Molly!"  he  said  sharply,  and  as  she  looked  at 
him  over  Blossom's  prostrate  head,  he  met  a  light 
of  anger  that  seemed,  while  it  lasted,  to  illumine  her 
features. 

"Blossom  and  I  were  married  nearly  two  years 
ago,"  he  said. 

"Nearly  two  years  ago?"  she  repeated.  "Why  have 
we  never  known  it?" 

"I  had  to  think  of  my  mother,"  he  replied  almost 
doggedly.  Then  driven  by  a  rush  of  anger  against 
Blossom  because  she  was  to  blame  for  it  all  —  because 
he  had  ever  seen  her,  because  he  had  ever  desired  her, 


THE  TURN  OF  THE  WHEEL  411 

because  he  had  ever  committed  the  supreme  folly  of 
marrying  her,  and,  most  of  all,  because  she  had,  in  her 
indiscretion,  betrayed  him  to  Molly  —  he  added  with 
the  cruelty  which  is  possible  sometimes  to  generous 
and  kindly  natures  —  "It  was  a  mistake,  of  course. 
I  am  ready  to  do  anything  in  my  power  for  her  happi 
ness,  but  it  wouldn't  be  for  her  happiness  for  us  to 
start  living  together." 

Blossom  raised  her  face  from  Molly's  bosom,  and 
the  strong  sunlight  shining  through  the  coloured 
leaves,  showed  the  blanched  look  of  her  skin  and  the 
fine  lines  chiselled  by  tears  around  her  eyes.  Encir 
cling  her  mouth,  which  Gay  had  once  described  as 
looking  "as  though  it  would  melt  if  you  kissed  it," 
there  was  now  a  heavy  blue  shadow  which  detracted 
from  the  beauty  of  her  still  red  and  voluptuous  lips. 
In  many  ways  she  was  finer,  larger,  nobler  than  when 
he  had  first  met  her  —  for  experience,  which  had 
blighted  her  physical  loveliness,  appeared,  also,  to 
have  increased  the  dignity  and  quietness  of  her  soul. 
Had  Gay  been  able  to  see  her  soul  it  would  probably 
have  moved  him,  for  he  was  easily  stirred  by  the 
thing  that  was  beneath  his  eyes.  But  it  was  impossible 
to  present  a  woman's  soul  to  him  as  a  concrete  image. 

"I  don't  want  to  live  with  him  —  I  don't  want  any 
thing  from  him,"  responded  Blossom,  with  pride. 
"I  don't  want  anything  from  him  ever  again,"  she 
repeated,  and  putting  Molly's  arms  away  from  her, 
she  turned  and  moved  slowly  down  the  Haunt's 
Walk  toward  the  Poplar  Spring. 

"I  couldn't  help  loving  you,  could  I,  Molly?"  he 
asked  in  a  low  voice. 

Her  face  was  pale  and  stern  when  she  answered. 


412  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

"And  you  couldn't  help  loving  Blossom  last  year, 
I  suppose?" 

"If  I  could  have  helped,  do  you  think  I  should  have 
done  it?  You  don't  understand  such  things,  Molly." 

"No,  I  don't  understand  them.  When  love  has 
to  cloak  cruelty  and  faithlessness,  I  can't  see  that  it's 
any  better  than  the  thing  it  excuses." 

"But  all  love  isn't  alike.  I  don't  love  you  in  the 
least  as  I  loved  Blossom.  That  was  a  mere  impulse, 
an  incident." 

"But  how  was  Blossom  to  know  that?  and  how  am 
I?" 

"One  can't  explain  it  to  a  woman.  They're  not 
made  of  flesh  and  blood  as  men  are." 

"They've  had  to  drill  their  flesh  and  blood,"  she 
replied,  stern  rather  than  scornful. 

"I  might  have  known  you'd  be  hard,  Molly." 

When   she   spoke   again   her   voice   had   softened. 

"Jonathan,  it's  no  use  thinking  of  me  —  go  back  to 
Blossom,"  she  said. 

"Not  thinking  of  you  won't  make  me  go  back  to 
Blossom.  When  that  sort  of  thing  is  over,  it  is  over 
once  for  all." 

"Even  if  that  is  true  you  mustn't  think  of  me  — 
because  I  belong  —  every  bit  of  me  —  to  Abel." 

He  stared  at  her  for  a  moment  in  silence.  "Then 
it's  true,"  he  said  at  last  under  his  breath. 

"It  has  always  been  true  —  ever  since  anything 
was  true." 

"But  you  didn't  always  know  it." 

"I  had  to  grow  to  it.  I  believe  I  have  been  growing 
to  it  forever.  Everything  has  helped  me  to  it  —  even 
my  mistakes." 


THE  TURN  OF  THE  WHEEL  413 

She  spoke  quite  simply.  Her  earnestness  was  so 
large  that  it  had  swept  away  her  shyness  and  her 
self-consciousness,  as  a  strong  wind  sweeps  away  the 
smoke  over  the  autumn  meadows.  And  yet  this 
very  earnestness,  this  passionate  sincerity,  added  but 
another  fold  to  the  luminous  veil  of  mystery  in  which 
she  was  enveloped.  He  could  not  understand  her. 
Less  than  ever  could  he  understand  her  when  she 
tried  to  tear  the  veil  away  and  the  terrible  clearness 
of  her  soul  blinded  his  sight.  Therein  lay  her 
charm  for  him  —  he  could  never  reach  her, 
could  never  possess  her  even  should  she  seek  to 
approach  him.  Behind  the  mystery  of  darkness 
which  he  might  penetrate,  there  was  still  the  mystery 
of  light. 

"If  you  really  care  about  him  like  that  I  don't  see 
why  you  gave  him  up  and  went  away  from  him,"  he 
said  helplessly.  "You  wanted  to  go.  Nobody  urged 
you.  It  was  your  own  choice." 

"Yes,  that's  what  you  could  never  understand.  I 
wasn't  really  going  away  from  him  when  I  went.  I 
was  going  to  him.  It  was  a  long  and  a  roundabout 
road,  but  it  was  safer." 

"  You  mean  it  brought  you  back  in  the  end?" 

"It  not  only  brought  me  back,  it  showed  me  things 
by  the  way.  It  made  me  understand  about  you  and 
Blossom." 

"By  Jove!"  he  exclaimed,  and  was  silent.  The 
pang  of  his  loss  was  swallowed  up  in  the  amplitude  of 
his  wonder. 

"Are  you  going  to  marry  him,  Molly?"  he  asked 
when  the  silence  had  become  unbearable. 

"If  he  wants  me.     I'm  not  quite  sure  that  he  wants 


414  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

me.     I  know  he  loves  me,"  she  added,  "but  that  isn'1 
just  the  same. " 

He  did  not  answer,  and  they  stood  looking 
beyond  the  thick  foliage  in  the  Haunt's  Walk,  to 
the  meadows,  over  which  a  golden  haze  shimmered 
as  though  it  were  filled  with  the  beating  of  invisible 
wings. 

"Molly,"  he  said  suddenly.  "Shall  I  go  after 
Blossom?" 

Her  face  grew  soft  and  tender,  like  the  happy  face 
of  a  child. 

"Oh,  if  you  would,  dear  Jonathan,"  she  answered. 

Without  a  word,  he  turned  from  her  and  walked 
rapidly  down  the  path  Blossom  had  followed. 

When  he  had  disappeared,  Mohy  went  up  the  walk 
to  the  Italian  garden,  and  then  ascending  the  front 
steps,  passed  into  the  drawing-room,  where  Kesiah 
and  Mrs.  Gay  sat  in  the  glow  of  a  cedar  fire,  reading 
a  new  life  of  Lord  Byron. 

Kesiah's  voice,  droning  monotonously  like  the  loud 
hum  of  bees,  rose  above  the  faint  crackling  of  the  logs, 
on  which  Mrs.  Gay  had  fixed  her  soft,  unfathomable 
eyes,  while  she  reconstructed,  after  the  habit  of  her 
imagination,  certain  magnificent  adventures  in  the 
poet's  life. 

"Have  you  seen  Jonathan,  Molly?"  asked  Kesiah, 
laying  aside    her    book  while    Mrs.    Gay   wiped  her 
eyes. 
'  "Yes,  I  left  him  in  the  Haunt's  Walk." 

"He  has  not  seemed  well  of  late,"  said  Mrs.  Gay 
softly,  "I  am  trying  to  persuade  him  to  leave  us  and 
go  back  to  Europe. " 

"He  is  anxious  about  your  health  and  doesn't  like 


THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH  415 

to  go  so  far  away  from  you,"  replied  Molly,  sitting 
on  an  ottoman  beside  her  chair. 

Taking  her  hand,  Mrs.  Gay  caressed  it  while  she 
answered. 

"I  can  never  think  of  myself  when  Jona 
than's  happiness  is  to  be  considered."  Then 
dropping  her  voice  still  lower,  she  added  tenderly, 
"You  are  a  great  comfort  to  me,  dear,  a  very  great 
comfort. " 

What  she  meant,  and  Molly  grasped  her  mean 
ing  as  distinctly  as  if  she  had  put  it  into  words, 
was  that  she  was  comforted,  she  was  reassured 
by  the  girl's  obvious  indifference  to  Jonathan's 
passion.  Like  many  persons  of  a  sentimental 
turn  of  mind,  she  found  no  great  difficulty  in 
reconciling  a  visionary  romanticism  with  a  very 
practical  regard  for  the  more  substantial  values 
of  life. 

"I  should  never  allow  the  question  of  my  health 
to  interfere  with  Jonathan's  plans,"  she  repeated, 
•while  her  expression  grew  angelic  in  the  light  of  he* 
sacrificial  fervour. 

"I  don't  think  he  wants  to  go,"  retorted  Kesiah 
rather  snappily,  and  opening  the  book  again  she 
began  to  read. 

For  an  hour  her  voice  droned  steadily  in  the 
firelight,  while  Molly,  with  her  head  against  Mrs. 
Gay's  knee,  looked  through  the  casement  window 
to  where  the  October  roses  bloomed  and  dropped 
in  the  squares  of  the  Italian  garden.  Then  at  the 
sound  of  hurried  footsteps  on  the  walk  outside,  the 
girl  rose  from  the  ottoman  and  went  out,  closing  the 
door  after  her.  In  the  hall  the  blanched  face  of 


416  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

Uncle  Abednego    confronted   her  like    the  face  of   a 
spectre. 

"I  ain't  a-gwine  ter  tell  Miss  Angela  —  I  ain't 
a-gwine  ter  tell  Miss  Angela,"  he  moaned,  "Marse 
Jonathan,  he's  been  shot  down  yonder  at  Poplar 
Spring  des  like  Ole  Marster!" 


CHAPTER  XV 

GAT  DISCOVERS  HIMSELF 

As  GAY  passed  rapidly  down  the  Haunt's  Walk  a 
rustle  in  the  witch-hazel  bushes  accompanied  him, 
stopping  instantly  when  he  stopped,  and  beginning 
again  when  he  moved,  as  though  something,  crouching 
there,  listened  in  breathless  suspense  for  the  fall  of 
his  footsteps.  At  the  Poplar  Spring  the  sound  grew 
so  distinct  that  he  hastened  in  the  direction  of  it, 
calling  in  an  impatient  voice,  "Blossom!  Are  you 
there,  Blossom?"  The  words  were  still  on  his  lips, 
when  a  thick  grape-vine  parted  in  front  of  him,  and 
the  bearded  immobile  face  of  Abner  Revercomb  looked 
out  at  him,  with  hatred  in  the  eyes. 

"Damn  you!"  said  a  voice  almost  in  a  whisper. 
The  next  instant  a  shot  rang  out,  and  Gay  stumbled 
forward  as  though  he  had  tripped  over  the  under 
brush,  while  his  gun,  slipping  from  his  shoulder, 
discharged  its  load  into  the  air.  His  first  confused 
impression  was  that  he  had  knocked  against  a  poplar 
bough  which  had  struck  him  sharply  in  the  side. 
Then,  as  a  small  drift  of  smoke  floated  toward  him, 
he  thought  in  surprise,  "I'm  shot.  By  Jove,  that's 
what  it  means  —  I'm  shot."  At  the  instant,  under 
lying  every  other  sensation  or  idea,  there  was  an  ironic 
wonder  that  anybody  should  have  hated  him  enough 
to  shoot  him.  But  while  the  wonder  was  still  engross 
ing  him  —  in  that  same  instant,  which  seemed  to 

417 


418  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

cover  an  eternity,  when  the  shot  rang  in  his  ears, 
something  happened  in  his  brain,  and  he  staggered 
through  the  curtain  of  grape-vine  and  sank  down,  as 
though  falling  asleep,  on  the  bed  of  life-everlasting. 
"It's  ridiculous  that  anybody  should  want  to  shoot 
me,"  he  thought,  while  the  little  round  yellow  sun 
dwindled  smaller  and  smaller  until  a  black  cloud 
obscured  it. 

A  minute,  or  an  hour  afterwards,  he  opened  his 
eyes  with  a  start,  and  lay  staring  up  at  the  sky, 
where  a  flock  of  swallows  drifted  like  smoke  in  the 
cloudless  blue.  He  had  awakened  to  an  odd  sen 
sation  of  floating  downward  on  a  current  that  was 
too  strong  for  him;  and  though  he  knew  that  the  idea 
was  absurd,  it  was  impossible  for  him  to  put  it  out 
of  his  mind,  for  when  he  made  an  effort  to  do  so,  he 
felt  that  he  was  slipping  again  into  oblivion.  For 
a  time  he  let  himself  drift  helplessly  like  a  leaf  on  the 
stream.  Then,  seized  by  a  sudden  terror  of  the  gulf 
beyond,  he  tried  to  stop,  to  hold  back,  to  catch  at 
something  —  at  anything  —  that  would  check  the 
swiftness  of  his  descent,  that  would  silence  the  rushing 
sound  of  the  river  about  him.  But  in  spite  of  his 
struggles,  this  current  —  which  seemed  sometimes 
to  flow  from  a  wound  in  his  side,  and  sometimes  to 
be  only  the  watery  rustle  of  the  aspens  in  the  grave 
yard —  this  imaginary  yet  pitiless  current,  bore  him 
always  farther  away  from  the  thing  to  which  he  was 
clinging  —  from  this  thing  which  he  could  not  let  go 
because  it  was  himself  —  because  it  had  separated 
and  distinguished  him  from  all  other  persons  and 
objects  in  the  universe.  "I've  always  believed  I 
was  one  person,"  he  thought,  "but  I  am  a  multitude. 


GAY  DISCOVERS  HIMSELF 

There  are  at  least  a  million  of  me  —  and  any  one  of 
them  might  have  crowded  out  all  the  others  if  he'd 
got  a  chance."  A  swift  and  joyous  surprise  held  him 
for  a  moment,  as  though  he  were  conscious  for  the 
first  time  of  dormant  possibilities  in  himself  which 
he  had  never  suspected.  "Why  didn't  I  know  this 
before?"  he  asked,  like  one  who  stumbles  by  accident 
upon  some  simple  and  yet  illuminating  fact  of  nature. 
"All  this  has  been  in  me  all  the  time,  but  nobody  told 
me.  I  might  just  as  well  have  been  any  of  these  other 
selves  as  the  one  I  am."  The  noise  of  the  river  be 
gan  in  his  head  again,  but  it  no  longer  frightened 
him. 

"It's  only  the  hum  of  bees  in  the  meadow,"  he  said 
after  a  minute,  "and  yet  it  fills  the  universe  as  if  it 
were  the  sound  of  a  battle.  And  now  I've  forgotten 
what  I  was  thinking  about.  It  was  very  important,  but 
I  shall  never  remember  it."  He  closed  his  eyes,  while 
the  ghostly  fragrance  of  the  life-everlasting  on  which 
he  was  lying  rose  in  a  cloud  to  envelop  him.  Some 
thing  brushed  his  face  like  the  touch  of  wings,  and 
looking  up  he  saw  that  it  was  a  golden  leaf  which 
had  fallen  from  a  bough  of  the  great  poplar  above  him. 
He  had  never  seen  anything  in  his  life  so  bright  as  that 
golden  bough  that  hung  over  him,  and  when  he  gazed 
through  it,  he  saw  that  the  sky  was  bluer  than  he  had 
ever  imagined  that  it  could  be,  and  that  everything 
at  which  he  looked  had  not  only  this  quality  of  intense, 
of  penetrating  brightness,  but  appeared  transparent, 
with  a  luminous  transparency  which  seemed  a  veil 
spread  over  something  that  was  shining  beyond 
it.  "I  wonder  if  I'm  dead?"  he  thought  irritably, 
"or  is  it  only  delirium?  And  if  I  am  dead,  it  really 


420  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

doesn't  matter  —  an  idiot  could  see  through  anything 
so  thin  as  this." 

Again  the  cloud  closed  over  him,  and  again  just  as 
suddenly  it  lifted  and  the  joyous  surprise  awoke  in 
,his  mind.  He  remembered  feeling  the  same  sensation 
in  his  boyhood,  when  he  had  walked  one  morning  at 
sunrise  on  a  strange  road,  and  had  wondered  what 
would  happen  when  he  turned  a  long  curve  he  was 
approaching.  And  it  seemed  to  him  now  as  then,  that 
a  trackless,  a  virgin  waste  of  experience  surrounded 
him  —  that  he  was  in  the  midst  of  an  incalculable 
vastness  of  wonder  and  delight.  It  was  a  nuisance 
to  have  this  web  of  flesh  wrapping  about  him,  binding 
his  limbs,  hindering  his  efforts,  stifling  his  breath. 

And  then,  as  in  the  brain  of  a  fevered  and  delirious 
man,  this  impression  vanished  as  inexplicably  as  it 
had  come.  His  ideas  were  perfectly  independent 
of  his  will.  He  could  neither  recover  one  that  he  had 
lost  nor  summon  a  fresh  one  from  the  border  of  ob 
scurity  that  surrounded  a  centre  of  almost  intolerable 
brightness  into  which  his  mental  images  glided  as  into 
a  brilliantly  lighted  chamber.  Into  this  brightness 
a  troop  of  hallucinations  darted  suddenly  like  a 
motley  and  ill-assorted  company  of  players.  He  saw 
first  a  grotesque  and  indistinct  figure,  which  he  dis 
cerned  presently  to  be  the  goblin  his  nurse  had  used 
to  frighten  him  in  his  infancy;  then  the  face  of  his 
uncle,  the  elder  Jonathan  Gay,  with  his  restless 
and  suffering  look;  and  after  this  the  face  of  Kesiah, 
wearing  her  deprecating  expression,  which  said: 
"It  isn't  really  my  fault  that  I  couldn't  change  things"; 
and  then  the  faces  of  women  he  had  seen  but  once, 
or  passed  in  the  street  and  remembered;  and  in  the 


GAY  DISCOVERS  HIMSELF  421 

midst  of  these  crowding  faces,  the  scarred  and  ravaged 
face  of  an  old  crossing-sweeper  on  a  windy  corner  in 
Paris.  .  .  .  "I  wish  they'd  leave  me  alone," 
he  thought,  with  the  helplessness  of  delirium,  "I 
wish  they'd  keep  away  and  leave  me  alone."  He 
wanted  to  drive  these  hallucinations  from  his 
brain,  and  to  recapture  the  exhilarating  sense 
of  discovery  he  had  lost  the  minute  before,  but 
because  he  sought  it,  in  some  unimaginable  way,  it 
continued  to  elude  him.  The  loud  hum  of  bees  in  the 
Indian  summer  confused  him,  and  he  thought  impa 
tiently  that  if  it  would  only  cease  for  an  instant,  his 
mind  might  clear  again,  and  he  might  think  things  out 
-  that  he  might  even  remember  the  important  things 
he  had  forgotten.  "Abner  Revercomb  shot  me," 
he  said  aloud.  "I  don't  know  much.  I  don't  know 
whether  I  am  alive  or  dead.  All  I  am  certain  of  is 
that  it  doesn't  matter  in  the  least  —  that  it's  too 
small  a  fact  to  make  any  fuss  about.  It's  all  so  small 
—  the  whole  blamed  thing  isn't  any  more  important 
than  those  bees  humming  out  there  in  the  meadow. 
And  I  might  as  well  have  developed  into  any  one 
of  my  other  selves.  What  were  all  those  seeds  of 
possibilities  for  if  they  never  came  to  anything? 
Why,  I  might  have  been  a  hero  —  it  was  in  me  all  the 
time  —  I  might  even  have  been  a  god." 

Then  for  the  first  time  he  became  aware  of  his  body 
as  of  something  outside  of  himself  —  something  that 
had  been  tacked  on  to  him.  He  felt  all  at  once  that 
his  feet  were  as  heavy  as  logs  —  that  they  were  be- 
'numbed,  that  they  had  fallen  asleep,  and  were  filled 
'with  the  sharp  pricking  of  thorns.  Yet  he  had  no 
'control  over  them;  he  could  not  move  them,  could 


422  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

hardly  even  think  of  them  as  belonging  to  himself. 
This  sensation  of  numbness  began  slowly  to  crawl 
upward  like  some  gigantic  insect.  He  knew  it  would 
reach  his  knees  and  then  pass  on  to  his  waist,  but  the 
knowledge  gave  him  no  power  to  prevent  its  coming, 
and  when  he  tried  to  will  his  hand  to  move,  it  refused 
to  obey  the  action  of  his  brain. 

"I'm  really  out  of  my  head,"  he  thought,  and  the 
next  instant,  "or,  it's  all  a  dream,  and  I've  been 
only  a  dream  from  the  beginning." 

A  century  afterwards,  he  opened  his  eyes  and  saw 
a  face  bending  over  him,  which  seemed  as  if  it  were 
of  gossamer,  so  vague  and  shadowy  it  looked  beside 
the  images  of  his  delirium.  An  excited  and  eager 
humming  was  in  his  ears,  but  he  could  not  tell  whether 
it  was  the  voices  of  human  beings  or  the  loud  music 
of  the  bees  in  the  meadow.  From  his  waist  down  he 
could  feel  nothing,  not  even  the  crawling  of  the  gigan 
tic  insect,  but  the  rest  of  his  body  was  a  single  throb 
bing  pain,  a  pain  so  intense  that  it  seemed  to  drag 
him  back  from  the  gulf  of  darkness  into  which  he  was 
drifting. 

"Can  you  hear?"  asked  a  voice  from  out  the  hum  of 
sound,  speaking  in  the  clear,  high  tone  one  uses  to  a 
deaf  man. 

Another  voice,  he  was  not  sure  whether  it  was  his 
own  or  a  stranger's  —  repeated  from  a  distance, 
"Can  I  hear?" 

"Did  you  see  who  shot  you?"  said  the  first  voice. 

And  the  second  voice  repeated  after  it:  "Did  I 
fee  who  shot  me?" 

"Was  it  Abner  Revercomb?"  asked  the  first  voice. 


GAY  DISCOVERS  HIMSELF  423 

He  knew  then  what  they  meant,  and  suddenly  he 
began  to  think  lucidly  and  rapidly  like  a  person  under 
the  mental  pressure  of  strong  excitement  or  of  alcohol. 
Everything  showed  distinctly  to  him,  and  he  saw  with 
this  wonderful  distinctness,  that  it  made  no  difference 
whether  it  was  Abner  Revercomb  or  one  of  his  own 
multitude  of  selves  that  had  shot  him.  It  made  no 
difference  —  nothing  mattered  except  to  regain  that 
ineffable  sense  of  approaching  discovery  which  he  had 
lost. 

"Was  it  Abner  Revercomb?"  said  the  first  voice 
more  loudly. 

He  was  conscious  now  of  himself  and  of  his  surround 
ings,  and  there  was  no  uncertainty,  no  hesitation  in 
his  answer. 

"It  was  an  accident.  I  shot  myself,"  he  said,  and 
after  a  moment  he  added  almost  angrily,  "Why 
should  anybody  shoot  me?  It  would  be  ridiculous." 

It  was  there  again  —  the  unexplored,  the  incalcu 
lable  vastness.  If  they  would  only  leave  him  alone 
he  might  recover  it  before  it  eluded  him. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE  END 

IN  THE  middle  of  the  afternoon  Molly  went  into  the 
spare  room  in  the  west  wing,  and  stopped  beside  the 
high  white  bed  on  which  Gay  was  lying,  with  the  sheet 
turned  down  from  his  face.  In  death  his  features 
wore  a  look  of  tranquil  brightness,  of  arrested  energy, 
as  if  he  had  paused  suddenly  for  a  brief  space,  and 
meant  to  rise  and  go  on  again  about  the  absorbing 
business  of  living.  The  windows  were  open,  and 
through  the  closed  shutters  floated  a  pale  greenish 
light  and  the  sound  of  dead  leaves  rustling  softly  in 
the  garden. 

She  had  hardly  entered  before  the  door  opened 
noiselessly  again,  and  Kesiah  came  in  bringing  some 
white  roses  in  a  basket.  Drawing  a  little  away,  Molly 
watched  her  while  she  arranged  the  flowers  with  light 
and  guarded  movements,  as  if  she  were  afraid  of 
disturbing  the  sleeper.  Of  what  was  she  thinking? 
the  girl  wondered.  Was  she  grieving  for  her  lost  youth, 
with  its  crushed  possibilities  of  happiness,  or  for 
the  rich  young  life  before  her,  which  had  left  its 
look  of  arrested  energy  still  clinging  to  the  deserted 
features?  Was  she  saddened  by  the  tragic  mystery 
!of  Death  or  by  the  more  poignant,  the  more  inscrut- 
lable  mystery  of  Life?  Did  she  mourn  all  the  things 
ithat  had  not  been  that  did  not  matter,  or  all  the 
(things  that  had  been  that  mattered  even  less? 

424 


THE  END  425 

Lifting  her  eyes  from  Kesiah's  face,  she  fixed 
them  on  a  small  old  picture  of  the  elder  Jonathan, 
which  hung  under  a  rusty  sword  above  the  bed. 
For  the  first  time  there  came  to  her  an  impulse 
of  compassion  for  the  man  who  was  her  father. 
Perhaps  he,  also,  had  suffered  because  life  had  driven 
him  to  do  the  things  that  he  hated  —  perhaps  he, 
also,  had  had  his  secret  chamber  in  which  his  spirit 
was  crucified?  With  the  thought  something  in  her 
heart,  which  was  like  a  lump  of  ice,  melted  suddenly, 
and  she  felt  at  peace.  "Because  I've  lived,"  she 
said  softly  to  herself,  "I  can  understand." 

And  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  bed,  between  the 
long  white  curtains,  Kesiah  was  thinking,  "Because 
I've  never  lived,  but  have  stood  apart  and  watched 
life,  I  can  understand." 

Turning  away  presently,  Molly  went  to  the  door, 
where  she  stood  waiting  until  the  elder  woman  joined 
her. 

"Is  Mr.  Chamberlayne  still  with  Aunt  Angela?" 
she  asked. 

"Yes.  He  was  on  his  way  to  visit  her  when  Cephus 
met  him  near  the  cross-roads."  For  an  instant  she 
paused  to  catch  her  breath,  and  then  added  softly, 
"Angela  is  bearing  it  beautifully." 

Stooping  over,  she  picked  up  a  few  scattered  rose 
leaves  from  the  threshold  and  dropped  them  into  the 
empty  basket,  before  she  followed  Molly  down  the 
hall  of  the  west  wing  to  the  lattice  door,  which  opened 
on  the  side-garden.  Here  the  rustling  of  dead  leaves 
grew  louder,  and  faint  scents  of  decay  and  mould  were 
wafted  through  the  evanescent  beauty  of  the  Indian 
summer. 


426  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

While  they  stood  there,  Mr.  Chamberlayne  came 
down  the  staircase,  wiping  his  eyes,  which  were  very 
red,  on  his  white  silk  handkerchief. 

"She  bears  it  beautifully,  just  as  we  might  have 
expected,"  he  said.  "I  have  seldom  witnessed  such 
fortitude,  such  saintly  resignation  to  what  she  feels 
to  be  the  will  of  God." 

Molly's  eyes  left  his  face  and  turned  to  the  purple 
and  gold  of  the  meadows,  where  webs  of  silver  thistle 
down  were  floating  over  the  path  she  had  trodden  only 
a  few  hours  ago.  Nothing  had  changed  in  the  land 
scape  —  the  same  fugitive  bloom  was  on  the  fields, 
the  same  shadows  were  on  the  hillside,  the  same 
amber  light  was  on  the  turnpike.  She  thought  of 
many  things  in  that  instant,  but  beneath  them  all, 
like  an  undercurrent,  ran  the  knowledge  that  Mrs. 
Gay  was  "bearing  it  beautifully"  behind  her  closed 
shutters.  When  her  mind  went  back  to  the  past, 
she  remembered  the  elder  Jonathan,  who  had  per 
ished  in  the  fine  silken  mesh  of  the  influence  he  was 
powerless  to  break.  After  this  came  the  memory  of 
the  day  when  Janet  Merry  weather  had  flung  herself 
on  the  mercy  of  that  gentle  heart,  and  had  found 
it  iron.  And  then  she  thought  of  the  son,  who  had 
drifted  into  deceit  and  subterfuge  because  he  was  not 
strong  enough  to  make  war  on  a  thing  so  helpless. 
He,  also,  had  died  because  he  dared  not  throw  off  that 
remorseless  tyranny  of  weakness.  Without  that  soft 
yet  indomitable  influence,  he  would  never  have  lied 
in  the  beginning,  would  never  have  covered  his  faith 
lessness  with  the  hypocrisy  of  duty. 

"You  have  been  a  great  comfort  to  her,  Mr.  Cham 
berlayne,"  said  Kesiah,  breaking  the  silence  at  last. 


THE  END  427 

A  low  sound,  half  a  sob,  half  a  sigh,  escaped  the 
lawyer's  lips.  "A  spirit  like  hers  needs  no  other  prop 
than  her  Creator,"  he  replied. 

"It  is  when  one  expects  her  to  break  down  that  she 
shows  her  wonderful  fortitude,"  added  Kesiah. 

"Her  consolation  now  is  the  thought  that  she  never 
considered  either  her  health  or  her  happiness  where 
her  son  was  concerned,"  pursued  the  old  man. 
"She  clings  pathetically  to  the  memory  that  she 
urged  him  to  return  to  Europe,  and  that  he  chose 
to  remain  a  few  weeks  for  the  pleasure  of  hunting. 
Not  a  breath  stains  the  purity  of  her  utter 
selflessness.  To  witness  such  spiritual  beauty  is  a 
divine  inspiration." 

For  the  last  few  hours,  ever  since  a  messenger  had 
met  him,  half  way  on  the  Applegate  road,  with  the 
news  of  Jonathan's  death,  he  had  laboured  philo 
sophically  to  reconcile  such  a  tragedy  with  his  pre 
conceived  belief  that  he  inhabited  the  best  of  all  pos 
sible  worlds.  Only  when  suffering  obtruded  brutally 
into  his  immediate  surroundings,  was  it  necessary 
for  him  to  set  about  resolving  the  problem  of  existence 
-  for,  like  most  hereditary  optimists,  he  did  not 
borrow  trouble  from  his  neighbours .  A  famine  or  an 
earthquake  at  a  little  distance  appeared  to  him  a 
puerile  obstacle  to  put  forward  against  his  belief  in 
the  perfection  of  the  planetary  scheme;  but  when  his 
eyes  rested  upon  the  martyred  saintliness  of  Mrs. 
Gay's  expression,  he  was  conscious  that  his  optimism 
tottered  for  an  instant,  and  was  almost  overthrown. 
That  a  just  and  tender  Deity  should  inflict  pain  upon 
so  lovely  a  being  was  incomprehensible  to  his  chival 
rous  spirit. 


428  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

"Has  any  one  told  her  about  Blossom?  "  asked  Molly. 

Kesiah  shook  her  head.  "  Mr.  Chamberlayne  feels 
that  it  would  be  cruel.  She  knows  so  little  about 
Jonathan's  affairs  that  we  may  be  able  to  keep  his 
marriage  from  her  knowledge  if  she  leaves  Jordan's 
Journey  a  few  days  after  the  funeral." 

"In  spite  of  it  all  I  know  that  Jonathan  hated 
lies,"  said  Molly  almost  fiercely. 

"Our  first  thought  must  be  to  spare  her,"  answered 
the  lawyer.  "It  was  her  son's  endeavour  always,  just 
as  it  was  my  poor  old  friend  Jonathan's.  If  you  will 
come  with  me  into  the  library,"  he  added  to  Kesiah, 
"we  will  take  a  few  minutes  to  look  over  the  papers 
I  have  arranged." 

They  moved  away,  walking  side  by  side  with  halt 
ing  steps,  as  though  they  were  crushed  by  age,  and  yet 
were  trying  to  the  last  to  keep  up  an  appearance  of 
activity.  For  a  minute  Molly  gazed  after  them. 
Then  her  eyes  wandered  to  the  light  that  shimmered 
over  the  meadows,  and  descending  the  stone  steps 
into  the  side-garden,  she  walked  slowly  through  the 
miniature  maze,  where  the  paths  were  buried  deep 
in  wine-coloured  leaves  which  had  drifted  from  the 
half  bared  trees  on  the  lawn.  Abel  was  coming,  she 
knew,  and  she  waited  for  him  in  a  stillness  that  seemed 
akin  to  that  of  the  softly  breathing  plant  life  around 
her.  It  was  the  hour  for  which  she  had  hungered  for 
weeks,  yet  now  that  it  had  come,  she  could  hardly 
recognize  it  for  the  thing  she  had  wanted.  A  sudden 
blight  had  fallen  over  her,  as  though  she  had  brought 
the  presence  of  death  with  her  out  of  that  still  chamber. 
Every  sound  was  hushed  into  silence,  every  object 
appeared  as  unsubstantial  as  a  shadow.  Beyond  the 


THE  END  429 

lawn,  over  the  jewelled  meadows,  she  could  see  the 
white  spire  of  Old  Church  rising  above  the  coloured 
foliage  in  the  churchyard,  and  beyond  it,  the  flat  ashen 
turnpike,  which  had  led  hundreds  of  adventurous 
feet  toward  the  great  world  they  were  seeking.  She 
remembered  that  the  sight  of  the  turnpike  had  once 
made  her  restless;  now  it  brought  her  only  a  promise 
of  peace. 

Turning  at  the  sound  of  a  step  on  the  dead  leaves, 
she  sawT  that  Abel  had  entered  the  garden,  and  was 
approaching  her  along  one  of  the  winding  paths. 
When  he  reached  her,  he  spoke  quickly  without 
taking  her  outstretched  hand.  The  sun  was  in  his 
eyes  and  he  lowered  them  to  the  over-blown  roses 
in  a  square  of  box. 

"I  came  over  earlier,"  he  said,  "but  I  couldn't  see 
any  one  except  Mr.  Chamberlayne." 

"He  told  me  you  would  come  back.  That  was 
why  I  waited." 

For  a  moment  he  seemed  to  struggle  for  breath. 
Then  he  said  quickly. 

"Molly,  do  you  believe  it  was  an  accident?" 

She  started  and  her  hands  shook. 

"He  said  so  at  the  end  —  otherwise  —  how  —  how 
could  it  have  happened  ?" 

"Yes,  how  could  it  have  happened?"  he  repeated, 
and  added  after  a  pause,  "He  was  a  fine  fellow.  I 
always  liked  him." 

Her  tears  choked  her,  and  when  she  had  recovered 
her  voice,  she  put  a  question  or  two  about  Blossom  — 
delaying,  through  some  instinct  of  flight,  the  moment 
for  which  she  had  so  passionately  longed. 

"It  was  all  so  unnecessary,"  she  said,  "that  is  the 


430  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

worst  of  it.  It  might  just  as  easily  not  have  hap 
pened." 

"I  wish  I  could  be  of  some  use,"  he  answered. 
"  Perhaps  Mr.  Chamberlayne  has  thought  of  some 
thing  he  would  like  me  to  do?" 

"He  is  in  the  library.     Uncle  Abednego  will  show 

you." 

He  put  out  his  hand,  "Then  good-bye,  Molly,"  he 
said  gently. 

But  at  the  first  touch  of  his  fingers  the  spell  was 
broken,  and  the  mystery  of  life,  not  of  death,  rushed 
over  her  like  waves  of  light.  She  knew  now  that  she 
was  alive  —  that  the  indestructible  desire  for  hap 
piness  was  still  in  her  heart.  The  meaning  of  life  did 
not  matter  while  the  exquisite,  the  burning  sense  of  its 
sweetness  remained. 

"Abel,"  she  said  with  a  sob,  half  of  joy,  half  of 
sorrow,  "  if  I  go  on  my  knees,  will  you  forgive  me?" 

He  had  turned  away,  but  at  her  voice,  he  stopped 
and  looked  back  with  the  sunlight  in  his  eyes. 

"There  isn't  any  forgiveness  in  love,  Molly,"  he 
answered. 

"Then  —  oh,  then  if  I  go  on  my  knees  will  you  love 
me?" 

He  smiled,  and  even  his  smile,  she  saw,  had  lost  its 
boyish  brightness  and  grown  sadder. 

"I'd  like  to  see  you  on  your  knees,  if  I  might 
pick  you  up,"  he  said,  "but,  Molly,  I  can't.  You've 
everything  to  lose  and  I've  nothing  on  God's  earth 
to  give  you  except  myself." 

"But  if  that's  all  I  want?" 

"It  isn't,  darling.  You  may  think  so,  but  it  isn't 
and  vou'd  find  it  out.  You  see  all  this  time  since  I've 


THE  END  431 

lost  you,  I've  been  learning  to  give  you  up.  It's  a 
poor  love  that  isn't  big  enough  to  give  up  when  the 
chance  comes  to  it." 

"If  —  if  you  give  me  up,  I'll  let  everything  go," 
she  said  passionately.  "I'll  not  take  a  penny  of  that 
money.  I'll  stay  at  Old  Church  and  live  with  Betsey 
Bottom  and  raise  chickens.  If  you  give  me  up  I'll 
die,  Abel,"  she  finished  with  a  sob. 

At  the  sound  of  her  sob,  he  laughed  softly,  and  his 
laugh,  unlike  his  smile,  was  a  laugh  of  happiness. 

"If  you  go  to  live  with  Betsey  Bottom  I'll  come  and 
get  you,"  he  answered,  "but  Molly,  Molly,  how 
you've  tortured  me.  You  deserve  a  worse  punishment 
than  raising  chickens." 

"That  will  be  happiness." 

"Suppose  I  insist  that  you  shall  draw  the  water 
and  chop  the  wood?  My  beauty,  your  submission  is 
adorable  if  it  would  only  last!" 

"Abel,  how  can  you?" 

"I  can  and  I  will,  sweetheart.  I  might  even  make 
a  miller's  wife  of  you  if  it  was  likely  that  I'd  ever  do 
anything  but  worship  you  and  keep  you  wrapped  in 
•:lk.  Are  you  very  much  in  love  at  last,  Molly?" 

The  sound  of  his  low  laugh  was  in  her  blood,  and 
\vhile  she  leaned  toward  him,  she  melted  utterly,  draw 
ing  him  wTith  the  light  of  her  face,  with  the  quivering 
breath  between  her  parted  lips.  To  his  eyes  she  was 
all  womanhood  in  surrender,  yet  he  held  back  still,  as 
a  man  who  has  learned  the  evanescence  of  joy,  holds 
back  when  he  sees  his  happiness  within  his  grasp. 

"It's  too  late  except  for  one  thing,  Molly,"  he  said. 
"If  it  isn't  everything  you're  offering  me  —  if  you  are 
keeping  back  a  particle  of  yourself  —  body  or  soul  — 


432  THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

it  is  too  late.  I  won't  take  anything  from  you  unless 
I  take  everything  —  unless  your  whole  happiness  as 
well  as  mine  is  in  your  giving." 

Then  before  the  look  in  her  face,  he  held  out  his  arms 
and  stood  waiting. 


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